Red Envelopes
by mholub00
Summary: A single piece of paper is inside. He slips it from the envelope, unfolding it slowly, and begins to read. (A story woven together through letters from Natasha to Clint. Having just returned from a series of missions over seas, he pieces together the events of the last year with help from a stack of red envelopes she left before disappearing.) (Rated T for language- just in case.)
1. Prologue

**A/N: Welcome! This is the prologue to my newest story idea. It's basically going to be told through letters from Natasha to Clint, except for this and the chapters titled with Part so-and-so, as opposed to months, which are going to be told from mostly Clint's POV until closer to the end I believe. So we're going to see how this works out.**

**As always, thanks for reading!**

_June 15, 2013_

In her hand is an envelope.

It is red, one word written in cursive across the front. The room is still empty, bed having been untouched for quite a while. It is dark with the shades closed and the sinking feeling comes back, as if it will be the last time she stands in this spot.

With a sigh she pulls open the drawer of his bedside table. A rather large stack of similar envelopes sits inside. Besides a flipped over picture frame and a box of matches, the drawer is otherwise empty. Her free hand hovers over the stack for a second before reaching for the picture frame. The photograph is one she has seen many times in the last year and the tears that threaten to fall just from looking at it remind her why she put hid it in the first place. She recognizes herself, of course, wild red hair and green eyes, laughing at something she no longer remembers. The man with his arm around her shoulder, also laughing, his sandy blonde hair and blue grey eyes gazing happily at the camera...she runs her fingers lightly over him as if some connection will be present. Instead her phone beeps from within the bag slung on her shoulder, simply a reminder of what she's really supposed to be doing. Replacing the picture, she lifts the envelopes and slides the new one into the rubber band on the bottom. She returns the room to its untouched state before leaving, pausing at the door to take one last look, again getting the feeling it will be her last time there.

"Let him know for me, J," she says to no one.

"Of course, Miss Romanoff," replies the British voice of the towers AI unit. "Now if I might remind you again, there is a car waiting downstairs for you."

She takes a deep breath, closing the door behind her.

Leaving the safety and peace and heading into nothing but uncertainty.


	2. Part I

_August 8, 2013_

Avenger's Tower is far from empty when Clint Barton walks in, JARVIS being the first to welcome him back. He stands for a moment in the middle of the room, closing his eyes and just allowing himself to relax for the first time in the last year. The loud arrival of Tony Stark and the clap on the shoulder from Steve Rogers only complete the feeling.

"Welcome home," Pepper says, giving him a quick hug before heading into the kitchen.

"Nice to see you made it back alive, Cupid," Tony says as he hands him a glass of whatever bottle he just opened. The other two greet him along the same lines, cheerfully and relieved sounding.

Clint catches the look, however brief, that Bruce and Steve share between them. He spins in a slow circle, searching the room for the person he really wants to see. But there are no red curls or sarcasm filled smirks or shining green eyes. Just three men who have fallen silent as they watch him.

"Where is Nat?" Clint asks hesitantly, not knowing if he really wants an answer.

Bruce shrugs and Steve looks at the wall, leaving the question to Tony. He swirls his drink in the glass. "Off doing some shit for Fury, I believe. Was it Germany or Austria...?"

"Austria. Definitely Austria," one of the others replies.

The happy mood fades with the frown that appears on Clint's face. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed her until the plane ride home, when he'd had a moment to finally think. And now she wasn't even here. He excuses himself and walks down several flights of stairs to the floor his room is on. The hallway is full of closed doors and he stares at the one at the end of the hall from outside his own, knowing that the room behind is empty of the person he wants to be in it.

Despite his long absence, he is surprised at how lived his room feels, and he knows she was in here. The bed is perfectly made but there are slight creases as if it was sat on. He can almost see the path worn in the carpet from her pacing; she paces when she's thinking. A book lies open on the window seat as if left there in a hurry- To Kill a Mockingbird, one of his favorites he had been in the process of convincing her to read. His attention is caught the most by the emptiness of his bed side table, the picture frame that is usually on it gone. There's a moments panic- it is one of his favorite pictures of her, after all.

"JARVIS, do you know where the picture is? The one that goes on the table?" He calls out, staring at the ceiling as he waits for a response.

"I suggest you check the drawer," the AI replies.

Clint crosses the room and pulls it open, anticipating it to be empty. Instead he finds  
the picture frame, relief flooding through him, and...a rather large stack of red envelopes.

His name stares back at him in her messy cursive. He would recognize it from anywhere. Hesitantly, he reaches in a runs his fingers over the surface as if not expecting them to be real. Curiosity and confusion are overpowering when the material is solid. He lifts the whole stack almost in slow motion, weighing it in his hands and mind before setting it on the table and carefully sliding the top one from the rubber band. He sits on the bed, staring at it while periodically glancing at the entire pile before tearing it open.

A single piece of paper is inside. He slips it from the envelope, unfolding it slowly, and begins to read.


	3. July

**A/N: And so we begin the story. I hope you're interested. Maybe just a little?**

July 7, 2012

Clint-

So you're gone. Off to some mystery country to do international dirty work for a group of people who spend all their time video chatting from their desks.

Did you know you were leaving? Because you could have said something. Then I wouldn't have woken up this morning in that stupid tower with you having disappeared. In the light of everything that's just happened, it was a little frightening for you to just be gone like that.

So naturally, I stormed in Headquarters and Hill tried to tell me Fury was busy but I didn't listen. It's not like I had anyone else to talk to since Couslon's gone, and she knows that. He was talking to the Council. Ah, the Council of Asses. And I walked in on their meeting and it was…awkward, to say the least.

All I wanted to know was why. Isn't that the only real question? Why you were gone. Why I wasn't with you- we are partners after all. And the last solo mission you were sent on didn't end to well, and I reminded him of that.

It's all part of their master plan; The Council of Asses master plan to "assess" your abilities after New York. As if we didn't just fucking save the world. Then he told me to take my problems to someone else because he had a shit load of paperwork to finish.

There's no one else _to_ take my problems to. We don't have a handler anymore.

I stormed out of his office too, slammed the door. I feel like a hormonal teenager.

I wish you were here.

Or I was with you.

-Nat

July 12, 2012

Clint-

Tony keeps trying to get us to go to the beach with him. He says he'll fly us all to California, which is that last place I want to go ever. The last time we were in California- do you remember how awful that was? That one dress still smells like oil and dust and San Francisco.

He doesn't sleep at night. That's why he wants to go back to Malibu. Pepper tells me, as if I couldn't hear him even from three floors down. She thinks I have some magic trick to get the nightmares to stop- I suppose if I can hear Tony moaning and Bruce wandering the halls at night, then they can easily hear me. She assumes too much. I never had a remedy or trick or anything. I've always just suffered through it, but of course pretty boy Stark can't stand to lose his sleep.

And I had you.

I guess that makes you a magic trick.

-Nat

July 19, 2012

Clint-  
Steve finally decided to move into the Tower. He has that last room on our floor, down the other hallway. It's still weird to run into him in the mornings instead of you. He was lonely over in his apartment, that's for sure. How much different it must be to live here instead, with Stark being a constant source of noise and annoyance and something exploding every other day. He spends a lot of time in the training rooms, which I only know because I'm there myself a hell of a lot.

Fury called me in today. First time I've seen him since you left, as I'm supposed to be on mandatory leave until the end of the month. I never needed two months of medical leave. I wasn't even injured. I need to be doing something and get away.

Anyway, he sort of apologized for kicking me out of his office, in the way only Nick Fury can attempt to apologize in. It was a sort of "I'm sorry I'm so irritated with the council but they need you in Weapons." I like to imagine he was apologizing for not answering my questions.

He still won't tell me where you are.

Those idiots down in Weapons are way too excited about seeing me. You take out hundreds of black market arms dealers and drug synthesizers and everyone is just scared out of their wits too talk to you, but just once you happen to be a part of a team who saves the world and suddenly the new recruits think it's alright to pretend they've known you your whole life. I'm pretty sure they were having a bet to which of them would have the guts to talk to me. They're idiots, the lot of them.

Apparently, though, being an Avenger has significant perks. Like my request for those new handguns finally got pushed to the top of the list. So, to the grumbling of the other agents, I now own two new custom guns and a shitload of those weird bullets that have been in development. They're "sleeker and shinier than ever before," and "all the shit." That's what one of them said- Spock, I'm pretty sure. He tried to glare threateningly at me when I called him that. It made me laugh.

There's a whole load of stuff waiting for you too, just sitting in the corner of the nerd room.

-Nat

July 27, 2012

Clint-

Hill keeps trying to get me to lead recruit groups with her. I guess there are a lot of them this summer. Wasn't she here the last time that happened? I mean, I know you and I are supposed to do that as a part of our job, being on the tip top of the SHIELD food chain and all that, but doesn't anyone remember besides me? A whole wall exploded and two of them had to go to medical, for crying out loud.

Somehow I was coerced into it. Is this a viable reason to file a work place complaint? Do we even have those here? Though in the end it was Fury who came down to training and "asked" me to do it for the hundredth time. I haven't seen him this tired since that week Thor first showed up, when Tony was in the process of killing himself and Banner decided to Hulk out in the middle of a university campus. Wasn't that also the week they found Steve? The details were never really relayed to me as to what was going on. I sort of lost track after the whole thing with Sterns half mutating himself into God knew what and that building falling on me.

I'm glad to report that no one died today. One kid got a bloody nose and is going to have one hell of a bruise in the morning. Though spending hours walking a herd of testosterone fueled nineteen year olds wasn't my ideal way to spend a day. They wouldn't stop staring at me- which is where the bloody nose comes in. I told Fury that it was an accident. They all underestimated the power of my right hook. It was actually a sporadic bloody nose, as I hit him in the cheek/eye area. Mostly cheek.

See? I'm no good at this people thing.

That's why they have you, I suppose. To handle the assholes that try and pretend they're so cool just to attempt to impress me. For some reason, rolling your eyes is considered "playing hard to get," as is punching someone. Because, as blood began pouring down his face and he looked like he was going to cry, he had the nerve to whisper, "I told you- you want me."

Now that I think about it, I should have gone ahead and broken his leg. Then Fury wouldn't have me on recruit duty and I could go back to just wasting away.

Thank God this leave is almost over.

-Nat

July 28, 2012

Clint-

The fire came back tonight.

-Nat

July 30, 2012

Clint-

I can't sleep. How could I sleep? Every time I close my eyes it's there, bright and flickering and burning my eyelids.

And the voices. They're there too. Laughing and whispering and I don't know what about or why and they don't make sense. The faceless man appears- the one that wears the grey sack and his eyes sockets bleed. And he touches me and it hurts but I can't open my eyes.

I must have screamed or something this time because when I finally woke up after falling on the floor, Steve was standing outside my door. He looked pretty freaked out but didn't ask question. Not like he would have gotten answers.

I'm sitting in your room because it's sort of calming. But I still can't sleep. It's just…the fire. God I hate the fire. Out of all the nightmares it had to be that one.

-Nat

July 31, 2012

-Clint

I feel weak and pathetic, sitting in my room at night wide awake while the rest of the tower lapses into silence.

How do you get them to leave? Because I can't do it.

-Nat


	4. August

August 2, 2012

Clint-

Leave is finally up. Finally. It's about time.

The first thing that happened this morning was my phone rang. I didn't answer at first but Fury kept calling until I did.

What did he do for the two whole months I was stuck in this tower, if he needs me right away? His B-Team can't be that bad, can they? But I'm off to Barcelona in the morning, and I most certainly am not protesting. If I have to spend one more day with Steve staring at me like I'm about to fall apart, I will kill someone.

I haven't slept more than four hours a night in a week.

They just won't stop.

-Nat

August 3, 2012

Clint-

It's weird, being here without you.

Fury has me working with Tucker and Fields. That's not even B-Team. That's like D-Team. They don't understand my—our—routine. How we take turns checking out the airport every few minutes depending on how long we have to be there. That we don't sit next to each other on the plane and most certainly don't draw attention to ourselves by arguing with a flight attendant over the types of liquor for sale. Because that's what's happening and I'm one snotty remark away from ripping their heads off.

If one of them goes and gets himself blown up, it's not my fault. Just remember that.

-Nat

August 10, 2012

Clint-

Having someone else's voice whispering in my ear from the rafters of a ballroom instead of yours.

Feeling another person's eyes watching my back as I slink around in that skimpy dress instead of yours.

Sharing this too small hotel room with these snoring bastards instead of you.

It's all too unfamiliar. Not helping the situation.

At least it's quiet on the balcony. At least there is a balcony, seeing as I don't have any duct tape and can't wake them up. Hauling myself out of the bed to get here was hard enough.

There are bruises like patchwork across my ribs. I think he had a metal hand. This guy was no match for the bullet through his forehead, but he got some hits in. If Fields had been paying attention for two seconds instead of watching the wrong guy order drinks, I never would have been dragged outside in the first place. My ribs would be normal.

One of them might be broken.

I'll have to get it checked out when we get back to New York.

-Nat

August 12, 2012

Clint-

"Welcome home," Pepper said when I walked in. Not "welcome back from hell." Welcome home, as if this is a nice place to be.

Though I suppose it is my home now. I mean, all my stuff has been brought over from the SHIELD apartments already. All my clothes are here- those useless dresses and countless pairs of heels.

Pepper stared at them like she was actually jealous. Jealous. Of the shoes I wore as I slit some ruthless mercenary's throat. She lost interest after I told her that and went on to looking through my dresses. As if those hold better stories. There's that black one I had on in Budapest. The deep blue with rhinestones from Prague in '05. Lavender and plum sundress- Rome '07.

My guns are here too, naturally. Every last one. How could they not be? Nicely organized in this half-empty walk-in closet. Books are everywhere. My computer is thrown on the tangle of sheets that should be considered a bed. So I guess it could be considered my home, even if it's not very homely feeling.

Our line of work doesn't offer a chance to have a home. We're supposed to be wandering outcasts, and we all were at one point. Except maybe Hill, who probably jumped right into SHIELD as if it was her birthright.

That's why I have you, isn't it? For that sense of belonging in this world for a purpose.

-Nat

August 18, 2012

Clint-

Three broken ribs. Twisted ankle. Fractured wrist. Possible concussion. No jobs for ten days.

It was the smallest accident. Things happen when you're beyond exhausted. At least I didn't get in a fight with someone. I just slipped. Off a rope. 50 feet off the ground. Impact with the ground has a tendency to re-break you recently broken ribs.

Fury just shook his head at me when he was called down to medical. He doesn't believe that I just fell, but I swear that's all that happened. So I've been grounded.

The Nest is a dangerously place to be when you haven't slept properly in days, in case you were wondering.

-Nat

August 23, 2012

Clint-

They're getting worse, I'm sure of it.

It's not just the fire anymore. Now I'm in that closet in Budapest, being starved out. I'm back in Moscow, the time they shaved off my hair, selling it for a pretty penny, before beating me half to death. I'm in Canada, when those experimental drugs made ants crawl out of people eyes and walls grow poisonous fungus that burned my fingers.

And I'm alone.

Always alone, until Steve bangs on the door and I wake up on the floor, tangled in my sheets. He asks those dreaded words. "Are you okay?"

They make me feel like punching him is his big super-soldier face.

Of course I tell him I'm fine. I'm always fine, to everyone but myself. And you, but you're not here. It was just a bad dream, I say. He doesn't mention that they happen every night. I don't mention that he's also awake, which is suspicious in itself.

But he's gone now and I'm on your windowsill. Drunk men cross the street below. Their lives can be washed away in alcohol. Do you know how much vodka I have to drink to actually get tipsy? Of course you do, seeing as you've tried so many times to top it.

I don't plan on sleeping tonight. Just like every other night.

I just can't.

-Nat

August 27, 2012

Clint-

They've all noticed.

I hate how they call me Natasha. It's so formal and work like and after all this time I once in a while forget it's actually my name.

Until someone says: "Natasha, are you okay?" as I pour my coffee. Can't a person pour coffee in peace these days?

And they're talking to me, of course they are. Natasha is my name, after all. Natasha. They all look at me as if I'm some delicate flower.

I tell them I'm fine. Absolutely fine.

"You're hands are shaking," is what Tony adds to the conversation. And I can't deny it. It's no use to deny something they can all see. I just set my cup on the counter and crossed my arms.

But that's no use because my arms are shaking too. This is what happens, isn't it? To me when I don't sleep?

They knew it too. They could tell I was running for three days straight on adrenaline and caffeine. They don't know why, not exactly, but that's not the point.

Steve asked why I didn't go to medical and I tried to glare at him but I kept going out of focus. I can't go to medical, I told him. They'd make me see some psychologist for insomnia and we'd have to talk about what my dreams mean over tea in the "safe environment."

I know what they mean. That I'm pathetic and weak.

And SHIELD wouldn't let me go back to work.

I wanted to slap those pity-filled smirks right off their faces.

-Nat

August 27, 2012

Clint-

Banner "whipped something up" is his lab.

It smells like shit. It looks like shit. Probably tastes like shit too. It's supposed to help me sleep.

He said if I didn't take it, he was going to tell Fury I can't go into work, and of course Fury would want to know why. Then he would know I haven't slept well in weeks. He would understand how I managed to slip off a rope and he would ground me for longer, not just for the lack of sleep but for being a weak idiot. Who knew Banner could do threats besides "don't make me angry," though that one works pretty well for him.

And I want to go back to work. I need to go back to work. It's too quiet and empty around here and I'm sure I'm going insane.

Here's to nothing.

-Nat

August 29, 2012

Clint-

Thirty three hours. That's how long I was out, according to the clock in your room. Thirty three hours of straight, uninterrupted nothingness.

I hate to admit it was nice. It felt great, minus how groggy and heavy and still tired I feel now. But the radio is on and I'm just lying on the floor and it's relaxing.

-Nat

August 31, 2012

Clint-

Off to the races! If only. But here I am, on a quinjet with another set of idiots, waiting to touch down in London to find that dreaded commercial flight out of Heathrow.

Last time I was in Monaco, Tony Stark almost got himself killed by Ivan.

Justin Hammer broke Ivan out of French prison.

Which led to a cascade of events that nearly killed Tony several times.

Ah, Monaco. With your white beaches and fancy appeal to honeymooning couples. Shame I'm not a dewy eyed tourist. Nope. I'm here to shut down the man responsible for spreading an unidentified virus around China through the mass production of purposely disease ridden teddy bears. What kind of sick bastard does that, I mean really? Teddy bears?

Ellianne Fuller- you know her. She's here, as well as some twenty-year old I've never seen before. He says his name is James. James Idian, he said as he shook my hand with too much enthusiasm. Maybe he can follow directions better than the two shitheads I was with before.

It's still weird that you're not here. I should be used to this, right? We've gone on solo missions before. Get in, get done, get out sort of thing. And you've been gone for months before, but something about this just seems…different. Wrong. Uncomfortable and awkward.

But hey, who doesn't love a good scandal in Monaco to lighten the mood? It's the perfect scenario to induct a nerd into the rest of his life.

-Nat


	5. September

September 10, 2012

Clint-

Something about this place is too nice. The high ceilings, the elaborate comforters, pool side waiter service, how easy it was to make friends with this particular bastards unsuspecting wife. Though I guess technically she's not his wife- she simply wears a ring on her finger and follows him around like a lost puppy dog, looking for attention, while dressed like a high end stripper.

She never would like me in real life. But here I'm not Natasha. What? Who's Natasha? 'Cause it certainly isn't me. I'm Johna Brian, from London. And I'm here with my younger brother Isaac and his almost-fiancé Kate Riselet, from the states. I just graduated from Oxford and my parents, who are terribly rich, sent Isaac and me here as a gift. So I have a shitload of classy clothes in a bag on the bed upstairs- big sunglasses and expensive jackets to go with the sequined and bedazzled shirts and custom made pants. And don't forget the new bikinis I made SHIELD pay for and bright red lipstick, as it is important I look the part.

It still all seems too easy, getting invited to this party tonight as a friend of the wife. Perfect place to get drunk and do some major recon while wearing a sparkly dress. Well, I won't be getting drunk. Everyone else will be.

I'm not sure how much I trust James Idian to be better than Fields at this. Actually, I don't trust him at all. I don't trust anyone, except maybe you. All I have to do is cooperate on the plan and hope he decides to do the same.

-Nat

September 10, 2012

Clint-

I feel absolutely ridiculous in this dress.

Everything else is the usual. My hair is curled the way I like it. My make up's done. I get to wear my favorite heels. There's a gun strapped to my thigh and a knife in my bra.

But this dress.

Ellianne brought it back from some boutique down the street. It's dark green with gold trim and strapless. Low cut and floor length. Nothing more or less scandalous than the usual make-the-bastards-look dresses I wear to every other one of these things.

I don't know. It's just so…ugh.

-Nat

September 15, 2012

Clint-

Phase two of the plan is in action.

The Wife has invited me to the next like 700 parties they're having while they're here. Apparently I was a hit. Her husband thought I was great, absolutely entertaining. All I did was tell a story about my ex-husband, made up on the spot in my head. Drank some margaritas. Watched as everyone else fell apart. Danced with the target and his evil minions. Surveyed the body guards.

It's a little suspicious that she likes me so much, but it's all a part of phase two. This is what is supposed to happen. I have an interrogation to complete, after all.

Party number two is tonight. I'm tired of speaking in poor French and using this fake accent. I'm tired of lounging by the pool while The Wife talks about…I don't even know. I sort of zone out unless it's important. I know, that's bad. Don't tell anyone.

She asked about the scars, the ones all over my stomach from Budapest. _That_ was awkward. I'm so used to having them that I almost forget that they're there. And when I wear a bikini, other people can see those scars.

-Nat

September 20, 2012

Clint-

We've been here for almost three weeks.

Three weeks. I've never been this bored on a mission before. There's nothing to shoot. Ellianne is pissing me off. All she wants to do is walk around Monaco like a normal tourist. Idian goes with her most of the time- it's his job after all, as Isaac Brian, to walk his fiancé around the city. Present themselves as a happy couple so no one has any doubts. I go too, sometimes when Idian has a report to file or has some call to take with his handler. This is his first real mission, so it's all that newbie stuff. Apparently he was recruited last year and was moved from Research to Field in July. He says he liked Research better. I told him it's because this is the boring part. The fun stuff is what comes next.

-Nat

September 21, 2012

Clint-

Party number five is tonight.

If I have to listen to one more drunken French bastard ask me to sleep with him, his head is coming off. I will not hesitate to pull his head off right there, in the middle of everyone. Then I can just shoot the target and go back to New York already.

-Nat

September 26, 2012

Clint-

Keep moving forward. That's what you're supposed to do.

Idian and Ellianne have finally decided that I might have collected enough information that we can go ahead and set the trap. And guess who the trap is? Me. Isn't that brilliant?

Not only do I get to seduce said target, I get to let him take me up to his room. I get to let him run his hands all over me until he fully believes that I truly want nothing more than to sleep with him. Then I get to punch him in the face and drag him down the hall to the second room we have set up so I can tie him to a chair and do the fun part. Idian will get to watch through a video feed so he can see what I mean.

He keeps asking if I'm okay with doing this.

"James," I said. "I like nothing more than to let drunken men lick my neck. It's my favorite thing in the world."

Then I had to remind him that this is part of my job and I've done more times than he would ever care to think about. That only made the disgusted look on his face worse.

But now I'm going to drink my vodka and prepare for tonight, just like always. Though honestly, torture's not going to be the same without you laughing through the comm unit as the guy shits his pants.

-Nat


	6. October

October 30, 2012

Clint-

I'm having quite an unlucky streak. A downward spiral. Fury just shakes his head and tells me to rest up.

I don't remember really what happened, besides the fact we were ambushed. When I woke up yesterday, Fury said something about a traitor in the system, who has been disposed of. He also said that James Idian sort of saved my life.

Great. More red in my ledger. Another debt to owe.

I've got so many drugs in my system that I just feel heavy. Like after I woke from my 33 hour nap. But I can't just sleep because the pain is too bad.

I got stabbed. I remember that part. I was tied to a chair and he slid it right between my ribs, my own knife, as if my skin was paper. Three times. Then he made me walk with a blindfold over my eyes. Sometime after that I think we got into a car. I remember him taunting me to scream, and I didn't say a word.

I don't know how long I was in the room, but I never blacked out. I just watched the walls slip in and out of focus and willed the bleeding to stop so I could stay awake. I was so close to sliding under when the extraction team showed up, all black uniforms and helmets and fancy guns. Someone untied me- I guess it must have been James- and that's when I got shot. In the lower back. I don't know who by, though I hope for everyone else's sake he's not part of SHIELD or he's already dead. Never have I felt that much pain. Not even that time I fell off the roof in Latvia and shattered my leg can compare to this. There was the floor rushing up and I couldn't stand or move and my legs went numb-ish, and that's it.

That's when the world went black.

And I woke up here feeling like I was on fire. According to the rest of the world, I'm still in a medically induced coma. Fury says that someone is out to get me, someone who may or may not have more spies in SHIELD. So there are two doctors and a Fury who know and that's that.

Is it bad that the first thing I expected to hear when I came to was your voice? And the first thing I expected to see was you?

There was a brief moment when the drugs were starting to slip and all I could think was 'Clint will be here.'

You weren't, and I don't know why you would have been. I'm in the medical bay every other week, this time no different really from any other. They wouldn't call you back from wherever just because I was unconscious once again.

And I'm just so confused because I can't remember if I imagined being excited to see you or if that actually happened. I can't figure out why I'm so disappointed that this chair next to my bed is empty.

All these emotions and...I just want you here. I want that 'I can't believe you did that' look and getting to tease you because you're worried. I want you to yell at me because I was being stupid and for freaking you out because you thought I was dead. I want to be able to tell you that I can take care of myself and have you make some stupid joke about how that works out so well every time. I want you here so we can be routine again. So everything can stop being uncomfortable and...

I just don't know, and to tell you the truth, that's even more frightening than the doctors saying they still aren't sure the extent of the damage to my nervous system.

I'm on bed rest for three months after I get out of here. The doctor looked shifty when he reminded me that bed rest meant no walking around what so ever.

They still aren't sure if I'll be able _to_ walk. I've been asked seven times so far today how my legs feel and I respond with fine, which is apparently not an acceptable answer. I swear though that they do feel fine. Just heavy. And I can wiggle my toes, which is good, right? It only sends shots of excruciating pain…everywhere. But if I can move my toes, clearly everything in between still works.

What if they're right though?

What if I've been paralyzed or semi paralyzed? What if my back never heals properly? I'm not sure what I'd do if I had to stop, well, being an assassin. Hell, my job is my life at this point. There's no one waiting for me when I walk out this door, no alternative. I'd be relocated to God knows where, given a new name and past. Natasha Romanoff would officially be dead, just like Natalia Romanova was when I defected from Russia. Just cease to exist, but to the citizens of whatever estranged fishing town in Washington I get dropped to, I'd simply be a stranger. And a stranger in a wheelchair, no less, if I am paralyzed.

Honestly, I don't think I'd be able to do it again, drop everything and start over. There's only so much of yourself that can be torn off before there's nothing left but a soulless body. That's what I'd be- a zombie of my former self, forced to act like I wasn't previously in the knowledge of a great deal of the world's secrets. A ghost of Natasha Romanoff.

This is why I need you. So you can remind me that everything is going to be alright. That doctors are just normal people who get lab coats, that they don't understand just how my body works. So I can believe in miracles again. Then you can flash that idiot smile and joke that even if I ended up paralyzed, Tony could just turn me into a half robot; I could be Darth Vader.

Someone besides the airship pirate and the idiots-in-lab-coats needs to walk through that door. Your I-don't-give-a-shit face with that hint of worry needs to appear. You need to tell me I'm being ridiculous so I stop listening to what they say. Because the more I'm alone in this silence, the more plausible it seems that I might never walk again.

Maybe this is the breaking point. I mean, even genetically enhanced bodies have their limits, right?

God, Clint. I'm just so lost. Everything is dark and I'm not sure what's going to happen next. It feels like before, each turn housing a different awful option awaiting my assistance, my skill set. There's the looming threat of forced suburban-ish life, Fury's eye feeling like it's burning a hole in the back of my head.

Because I've lost my light.

-Nat


	7. November

November 3, 2012

Clint-

I hate hospitals. I hate how they smell, all sterile and clean. Even being in this secret high security basement room makes me feel paranoid, just like always. It feels like death down here, though there are only two rooms. Apparently both are occupied, though Fury won't tell me who is in the other one. He said something about not wanting to ruin 'it,' and won't say what 'it' is. Because that truly makes me feel better about being cooped up in this place.

The only person I'm officially allowed to see is Fury, and he's no fun. He just asks how I'm feeling and knows that I'm lying and tells me the entire goings on of the world. Stark went back to Malibu because he missed his cars. Banner and Steve are still at the tower, waiting for me to wake up. Pepper is everywhere, at the Tower or in California or just nowhere at all. And you? I don't get a single word. I don't even know if you're still alive or not.

They would say something, right- if you were dead? I would get a note or letter or at least a person to tell me. I should. I don't see why wouldn't, unless everyone in the whole world has suddenly turned to uncaring assholes.

Occasionally Hill comes down, but she's busy trying to root out possible moles and, I quote Fury, "Assuring a very worried Agent Idian that you are, in fact, still alive." So I spend all day being poked at by doctors or staring at the ceiling.

I'm supposed to sleep. They give me drugs so I can sleep. It lasts about 10 minutes, because drugs don't work on me. The pain starts so I'm awake again. And sleeping in 10 minute intervals is exhausting.

I get to read too, whatever Hill can bring down. The Notebook is the worst book ever. I hate Vogue. I don't know where she gets these things. Probably takes them from one of the desk workers outside her office.

Anything is better than the ceiling.

But I'd rather read this trashy romance everyday then be in this room.

-Nat

November 4, 2012

Clint-

I understand now, why you're always here when I wake up and I'm always next to you when you wake up from whatever hell we went through. It's not just a partner thing, like everyone assumes.

It's a friend thing. A reassurance. A safety net.

The pain is so much worse alone.

-Nat

November 7, 2012

Clint-

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

That's seems to be all I get to say now. Every answer.

Are you in pain, Agent?

I'm fine.

Does that hurt?

I'm fine.

Do you need another blanket?

I'm fine.

Are you bored out of your mind? Are you hungry? Do you want to leave?

No, no. I'm fine.

I suppose I can tell you the truth though, since you're not actually here.

It hurts.

It hurts like I'm on fire every time I move, even a little. Like a million tiny knives are being forced into my bones. A thousand shots at once. Tons of rocks being dropped on my legs.

Would it hurt less if we upped your dosage, Agent Romanoff?

I'm fine.

Is this more comfortable?

I'm fine.

I don't tell them it hurts worse than hell. I know I should, but I don't.

-Nat

November 9, 2012

Clint-

76 times.

Fine is my new least favorite word. It has no meaning.

These doctors just don't get it. No amount of pillows, no higher medicine dosage, nothing is going to help.

That the only thing that could make this better is you.

You, sitting in that chair. Trying to hide how worried you are under cheesy jokes as we watch reruns of Scrubs and That 70's Show. Just like always.

-Nat

November 10, 2012

Clint-

The kiss a mother gives to her kid when he scrapes his knee. The kiss that makes the pain go away just because someone is there.

That's what you are.

It took me a long while to come up with that, not that I have much else to do. I've been pretending to sleep so that Fury will leave me alone.

I realize how weird that sounds now that I'm reading it on paper.

Whatever. I tried and therefore no one shall criticize me.

"There is only can and cannot, there is no try," is what you'd respond to that, bombarding me with your Star Wars-ism.

What a wise man you are, Master Clint, is how I'd respond. And we'd laugh and everything would be okay.

Maybe a better metaphor would be your laugh is like that kiss. It just sends all the pain away.

Except it's not just your laugh. It's just you, being here. You could be totally asleep in that chair and it would already be okay again.

And with that, I swear I will never attempt to write metaphors again.

-Nat

November 13, 2012

Clint-

You know what happens when you wake up from a medically induced coma almost three weeks early?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

They can't even take me upstairs for X-rays because I'm still supposed to be dead to the world. Who would build a secret basement medical facility without adding an X-ray room?

Doesn't lack of utilities defeat the purpose of it being a secret facility?

You know what happens when you wake up _voluntarily_ from a medically induced coma?

You have two very freaked out doctors who won't stop trying to figure out why, one humored Nick Fury, a confused assistant director, and one very agitated Russian who wishes she could move enough to rip off all of their heads.

-Nat

November 14, 2012

Clint-

Is it possible to strain your eye muscles from too much eye-rolling? I'll have to inquire of one Tony Stark when they're finally allowed to know I'm alive.

That seems like a type of cruel and unusual punishment, keeping our team in the dark about the fact I'm trapped in a building, very much awake and alive and very bored. Tony would have me back at the Tower within the hour.

It's almost as cruel and unusual as Fury repeating, "I can't tell you, Agent Romanoff. I have a protocol to follow," every time I ask where you are. Every time I ask if he has communications with you.

Every time I ask if you are alive.

-Nat

November 17, 2012

Clint-

I get to officially wake up tomorrow. How exciting.

The first thing I want is a cheeseburger. Secret Hospital Facility food sucks even more than usual hospital food. Fury looked at me weird when I told him, as if I was joking.

Funny. This actually the first time in the last three-ish weeks I've actually told the truth.

Though, if I'm being honest with myself, the first thing I want is to see you.

But, unless there's some miracle overnight, that won't happen. So I shall settle for a cheeseburger.

-Nat

November 18, 2012

Clint-

In the ten minutes I slept last night, they managed to move me upstairs. Upstairs, back to reality and humanity and into the room that I was supposed to have been recovering in this whole time.  
There's sunlight. Actual sunlight, coming in through a window. There's never been a time I missed sunlight more than this. Except maybe in Budapest.

This room has a TV. That was the second thing I noticed upon waking up and not knowing where I was3. You would think that a government company with a secret underground facility would be able to afford to put TV's in said secret facility, but I guess not. Nope. Televisions are for the cripples who are alive and awake and not in comas while their life is under a death threat.

The third thing I noticed was that there's no chair next to the bed. This has never happened. There's always a chair. Even if no one is sitting in it, it's still there. What is this? A discouragement of visitors? Anarchy? Absurd!

If there was an uncomfortable plastic chair next to me, you wouldn't be in it anyway.

-Nat

November 18, 2012

Clint-

Is it weird for a doctor to be excited about something? Because I swear this guy just danced around like a happy go lucky fairy princess as he announced he was taking me for my X-rays. And Fury grabbed my wrist as my hand clenched into a fist because of how much I wanted to throw him out of that window. He just shook his head.

"Dot let this be a repeat of last time," he said. "We don't have enough doctors to attend to other doctors."

So what? I've had a lot of run-ins with the medical staff where a wall ended up being broken or something. No one's ever gotten seriously hurt, right? And they're all afraid of me, except this fairy princess guy.

For the first time since Monaco I had to walk. And it wasn't even walking. It was me refusing to let Fairy Princess help me out of the bed and into the wheelchair. Needless to say, I at least know my legs work.

Everyone stared as I was taken down the hallway. I'm mean, that's normal. People always stare. And they always look away when they catch my eye. There was just something about it that felt...different this time. Like it wasn't "Oh my God she frightens the shit out of me" staring but "what happened to her" staring. I mean, I hate both, but the pity one is definitely higher up on my list.

I hate X-rays too. This is why I don't break bones or tear muscles, and when I do I don't tell people. Because then they're all like "come sit on this table and we'll blast you with harmful radiation to find the problem!" when I already told them what the problem was. Though I guess there was no getting out of it this time. Fairy Princess looked like he was about to shit himself with excitement when I stood up without him helping me. I guess I'm some medical miracle to the normal human.

He asked how it worked that way, because any person who was shot that near the base of their spine would have been paralyzed for sure.

What am I? Inhuman? Some mutated anomaly? A genetic miracle? Some medical advancement that could save the human race?

No. I am—was—an experiment. A puppet made to do whatever was wished.

There's no one to thank for that but the Russians.

-Nat

November 18, 2012

Clint-

Guess what!

I got shot at the base of my spine. There was a bullet in my back. And the bullet came from a gun, shot by a guy who should've been dead except Ellianne fucking Fuller decided a secret Chinese mafia group paid more to take me out. Disgrace to the race.

Fury says my sarcastic remarks are not appreciated. They discourage the doctors thinking mood, he said. But that was literally all I got from the four billion X-rays I say through this morning.  
Can you roll this way? Sit like this? Put your arm here and leg here and let us slide this under you?

Of course! It doesn't hurt one bit. Not one fucking bit.

Nope.

Pain? What sort of mortal idea is this?

Overall I guess it didn't look too bad, but I'm not a doctor. My medical knowledge stops at how to tell if something as been infected, how bad it is, and whether or not it's going to kill you. Nothing's broken, as far as they know. But some shredded muscles that are healing and damaged nerves that will be good as new because that's just what my body does. Fixes itself up so I'm ready for action.

Fairy Princess and Doctor Bald Man still voice their fears on the possibility of an only partial recovery, that there will probably still be things I can't do anymore.

Wouldn't it be absolutely depressing if I was no longer able to break necks with my thighs?

-Nat

November 18, 2012

Clint-

I think they upped my medication dosage. Don't they understand that the only thing this does is make my head pound?

My ribs don't stop hurting. My back doesn't feel any better. I still can't move. But my head is clogged like when you have a cold and its pissing me off.

The sooner I can get out of here, the better.

For everyone.

-Nat

November 20, 2012

Clint-

Is it weird that the doctors aren't as afraid of me as they are of Banner? That was the weirdest thing I've ever seen, when Fairy Princess walks in with Rogers and Banner following him, face white as a sheet and hands twitching. And he just kind looked at him and ran out.

Seriously. It's not like he explodes.

Stark is back in Malibu again. Steve said he was at the Tower for a few days while I was gone and then reappeared very briefly to make sure I was alive before he returned to his sciencey crap at his million dollar house. Apparently, though, they missed me since neither of them knows how to make any sort of food that is edible. For some reason they think _I_ can cook. I hate to disappoint with the fact that, as you know, it takes me three tries to make microwave popcorn without it burning. But hey, whatever. Maybe burnt popcorn is better than what they can make, which I find hard to believe since one of them has been living on his own for years and the other is from the 40's.

They weren't allowed to stay very long. I've never had a time limit on visitors before, though I suppose I've never had real visitors. It was always just Fury and Hill, who can come in whenever they please just because, and you threatened doctors if they even attempted to make you leave.

Sure, they told loads of jokes and stories and talked about weird shit they've been doing to try and cheer me up, I guess. Acted like they cared.

Or maybe they do care. I suppose that's possible- we are a team now.

Do teammates have to care about each other? Is it like a rule? I mean, I would fight beside them, so is that considered caring? Because I don't know if I would fight for them. I don't have that whole 'you have to go through me' attitude. It's not in my nature, I think. I take care of myself and I don't need other people to do it for me.

Though I would fight for you in a heartbeat. I would kill anyone who tried to lay a finger on you that you hadn't already killed. But we're partners. And we've been partners for years; it's just something we do.

Rogers and Banner cared whether or not I was dead. They were _worried_.

I'm not really sure if I like that.

-Nat

November 22, 2012

Clint-

I don't like this. Not at all.

There's a reason I have routines.

So nothing goes out of control. So people leave me alone. So I have that safety net to rely on when thing like this do happen.

I want my routine back.

I want Fury to sit down and do his regular "everything I got from all the other agents was absolute bullshit, so please tell me what really happened" debriefing thing where he stares at me with his one eye and has his arms crossed all serious because he's tired of dealing with assholes.

I want Hill to come in and do the follow up interrogation where _I_ get to know what really happened.

I want your "God, I hate people" eye roll and dramatic sigh as you're let back in the room.

I want to watch reruns of stupid TV shows until I fall asleep.

I want your voice to be the one I hear when I wake up shaking and screaming from the nightmares.

I want these fucking doctors to leave me alone for more than 10 minutes.

-Nat

November 23, 2012

I can feel it. The memories are starting to reappear again, not just when I close my eyes. The fire flickers at the edge of my vision and I can hear the screaming of a woman.

This isn't supposed to happen. That's why there's a system I rebuilt my life around, so this doesn't. So they don't come back.

Routines are put in place for a reason.

-Nat

November 24, 2012

Clint-

If you were here, I would've been cleared to leave already. We would be in one of the apartments. You would stay even after I tell you to leave, and the next three months would involve you sleeping on the couch, making sure I'm okay because you know I won't tell you. You would make me eat and do the "required" stretches from the doctor and yell at me when I'm being difficult.

"Natasha, just do it," you would say, shaking your head with a sigh. And that's how I would know you were mad, because you would use my full name.

And then at night, when I can't sleep because of the fire and faceless men and bodiless screams and dripping blood, you would hold my hand and run your thumb over my knuckles like you always do but pretend not to. And you would tell me circus stories or sing, but never in English. In Greek or Italian or Portuguese.

Then you would whisper, "Idi spatʹ. Ty v bezopasnosti," (_Go to sleep. You are safe._) because it's the only Russian you really know, and I would listen because it'd be true.

-Nat

November 28, 2012

Clint-

Whoever would have thought that the savior of my sanity and the safety of this facility would stride down the hall with the same cocky assholiness as one Tony Stark?

Well, certainly not me. I figured he'd given up, decided to let me rot in this death hole.

Yet here he is, arguing on my behalf with one very agitated looking Nick Fury, to get Fairy Princess and Doctor Bald Man to release me back to the Tower.

It's not like I'm going to break bed rest. I don't have anywhere to go, no one to see.

-Nat

November 28, 2012

Clint-

And one final set of X-ray's later, I'm free. Final destination: my bed. Though I suppose it's better that it's my bed instead of the crappy one I've been in for a month. Stark arrogantly pointed out that hospital beds are a cause of back problems in recovering patients because of how uncomfortable they are in comparison to the ones at the Tower. He just likes to brag about what his fancy money can buy that's better.

Though I do enjoy the comfort of my bed. Heated blankets. Television with more than twenty working channels. JARVIS and Rogers at my every command—Steve is on like 5 minute rounds right now. He doesn't trust me to call him if I need anything.

Not to mention I get to eat actual food. Sure, it has to be brought to me since I can't leave the room, but spaghetti and sausage is better in bed than crackers and Jello.

On the bright side, I can actually walk. I got to take seven steps from the wheelchair they took me outside in to the car Stark had waiting. It didn't hurt too badly, I guess, but it felt weird. I haven't really moved more than 2 feet on my own in nearly two months. And I don't officially get to for another 3.

It's all the usually jazz. Fury confiscated my building access to keep me away from HQ, so Rogers has to accompany me to all the physical therapy crap, and if he can't, "a car will be sent to pick you up—you are not to move a muscle." Stretches to do, lack of training to whine over, loads of time to file random complaints about how unfair this is. Same old, same old, every day recovery routine.

This bed is actually insanely comfortable. It's one of those moments when you don't truly realize how exhausted you are until you have a place to sleep.

-Nat

November 30, 2012

Clint-

Your room is warmer than mine.

And it smells better.

The carpet is softer.

Not that I would know. I mean—I'm on bed rest.

-Nat

November 30, 2012

Clint-

Where's this picture from?

-Nat


	8. Part II

_August 8, 2013_

A knock on the door pulls Clint back to his room, to the bed strewn with pieces of paper and torn envelopes. Bits of his name can be seen here and there, black pen on red. He blinks a few times and wipes his eyes before crossing the room to open the door. Steve stands awkwardly in the hallway, looking pointedly at the floor. He looks up, eyeing the mess on the bed briefly before focusing on Clint.

"She didn't _really_ want to go, you know," he says. "But she had to. She couldn't stay here any longer."

"Wha—"

Steve holds up his hand and Clint trails off. "It was hard for her, when you left. She pretended she was fine, but she wasn't. She didn't sleep and woke up screaming and it was bad for a long time." He pauses as if waiting for a response, continuing when he's met with silence. "It was better for a little, after she got hurt. But then it wasn't. We- we didn't know what to do, what was going on, and we tried, Clint. We tried to help but she wouldn't have it. She just folded in on herself after a while."

"Yeah, she's like that," Clint whispers. He's dealt with similar situations many times before, having to pull her from her own mind, bring her back to the light. "Did she do that to you?" He nods to the still-raised line just over his teammate's eyebrow.

His hand moves absentmindedly to feel the scar before he nods. "It was once, just once. The middle of the night, she woke up screaming- the same thing, it was always the same thing- but it was like she was possessed. I- we- couldn't wake her up that time."

"Fuck," Clint says, aiming a punch at the wall. Steve catches his wrist before it hits.

"She wanted me to tell you that she's sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know. I suspect you'll find out soon enough." Steve motions to the stack of unread letters on the table. Clint follows his gaze, overcome by a sudden panic as to what is waiting on the paper.

Steve begins to leave, taking several steps in the direction of the elevator before he turns around. "And Clint- I'm sorry, too."

"Why? What do you have to be sorry for?" His voice drops to strangled whisper. "This is my fault. She needed me here and I was gone. Everything. _It's my fault_."

"I'm sorry because I couldn't stop her."

Clint watches as he disappears behind elevator doors before closing and locking his own, returning to the bed to read on.


	9. December

December 1, 2012

Clint-

Seriously. Where did all these pictures come from? I don't remember smiling for this many cameras.

Are they from missions? Fake pictures of us pretending to be happy to impress fake people? They can't all be- sure that one on the bookcase is from the CIA sponsored Gala a few years ago. I remember having to walk around and shake hands with all these people who thought I was nothing more than a friend of some random man's family, there simply to witness his promotional acceptance speech?

But we weren't there for the party. We were there for an information drop, special invitation from some FBI mole, giving us the dirt on the under the table dealing that was going on.  
Because there's always a catch to the fancy parties.

There are some you've taken, and I recognize those because they're all of me doing normal people things, like reading a book on a bed in Fiji or putting on makeup for undercover.

I suppose that's not really normal, but it's as close as we get.

It's sort of creepy, you having all these pictures of me. Someone might think you're a stalker p some type. I probably would to, if I didn't know why you were always taking them.

It was my second year here, when you told me. Right after I'd been officially cleared as ready for active duty by the therapist and the shrink and the doctors. You took the first picture of me in my "official" uniform, the SHIELD T-shirts everyone is so fond of because they are insanely soft. I remember because I punched you right after.

You told me you were going to keep them all, just in case. A documentation of my new life for if I ever forgot who I was, in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

I'll be sure to let you know if they ever help.

I never pegged you as a nostalgic/memory saving kind of guy. I mean, I knew you had that one picture of you and your brother from ages ago, but that was it. Do you go picture frame shopping on your off days?

Though I suppose it would be creepier if you did have all these framed instead of in the box. On a shelf. In the closet.

Not that I was snooping. I wasn't. It fell, I swear.

This one on your bedside table is my favorite though. We're both laughing, though I don't remember why or where. It's nice to think that we were once happy, at least for the duration of a camera click.

-Nat

December 2, 2012

Clint-

Stark has decided the world is going to end. Being a genius, you would think he would know better than to rely on some ancient Mayan crap for the last day of the world, but I think he just wants something to make a big deal over. He and Banner are continuing a "what are the logics" argument at the end of my bed. Third day in a row. I don't see why they feel the need to do this in here, of all places. Why can't they go argue in the labs or the kitchen? Somewhere where I'm not, preferably, which isn't hard to do seeing as I've been isolated to one room.

Steve doesn't really understand it either. He slept through the whole end of the world, zombie apocalypse phase of human history. So he just stands by the door and rubs his chin and attempts to make the argument make sense, though after a while I'm not even sure if stark and banner are speaking in English.

Maybe the world really will end.

I wouldn't miss much, if it did. The only thing I would regret is not getting to say goodbye.

-Nat

December 7, 2012

Clint-

When you're on bed rest, you're supposed to stay _in bed_. In one spot, basically all day. Though of course you know that.

I know that. I just get bored very easily. Bored with my room, and I can't shake the restless, slightly panicky feeling. Like I'm trapped.

People just love to tell you that you don't know things. Take Steve Rogers for example. He likes to come back from SHIELD, where's he's lucky enough to be in shape to do his job, and check in my room before he heads to his own, just to see if I need anything. A true gentleman.

So when I'm not in my room, he calls my name for thirty five minutes. I don't answer because that's the point of not wanting to be found. When he finally does find me, because I'm sitting on the window seat in your room, we just look at each other for a while.

"You're not supposed to leave your room, you know. That's the point of bed rest."

Telling people things is like he's greatest life passions. Maybe it makes him feel more at home. Back in the army, barking sarcastic orders to people.

I mean, I get it. I'm not supposed to walk. But fifteen steps aren't going to kill more, even if it was more like 45 because of how slow I was going. I feel like it's important to build up my muscles again, even if no one else agrees. And I just can't stand sitting in there. It's too dark and quiet and from your room, I can look at the street and watch the people ants.

If I could go anywhere, I would be on the roof. But I'm not.

See? I am limiting myself. No stairs or ladders or crawling involved until at least next month.

-Nat

December 7, 2012

Clint-

You would roll your eyes, if you were here. Give that "Don't pull that bullshit on me," look you use so much. And if I refused to move, you would just pick me up and haul me back across the hall, threatening to chain me to the bed for the next three months if I don't just stay put. But then again, I wouldn't have been in your room in the first place if you were here. I would have just yelled that I was bored and you would have groaned really loud from across the hall and brought in like your x-box or something and we would've played Halo for hours until I fell asleep.

-Nat

December 9, 2012

Clint-

It's not every day you get tired of hearing your own name. It's all Natasha this, and Natasha that.

That's what Rogers says. And Pepper.

"Do you need anything, Natasha?"

"Natasha, call me if you do."

"I'll be right down the hall Natasha, if you need something."

Always worried that Natasha is helpless and weak.

Banner calls me Romanoff half the time, which makes me feel a little better every now and then. And Stark just calls me whatever the hell he wants. Nattie, Red, My Assassin Friend, Scary Russian Girl, Chuck Norris…there's more, I just can't remember them all. Red seems to be his favorite since he knows it bothers me most. He makes them up off the top his head most of the time. Nicknames seem to be his thing. You get to be Katniss or Cupid or Legolas and Fury is Airship Pirate. Yours are much cooler.

It's been five months since someone called me Nat. Or Tasha. Or Tash. That would be because you are the only one who does, and anyone else who tried would get my fist in their face, but still. I never thought I'd miss something like this so much. It feels like I'm missing a part of myself with all this formality.

And it takes me back to Rio. That was almost nine years ago.

-Nat

December 15, 2012

Clint-

He's 21, James Idian. He's called Jay, though, by his one and only real friend August Jones, who is a R&D Weapons Specialist.

He's also sitting on my bed. With food he brought over and the original three Bourne movies prepared to play, as well as the new one. Well, he brought the new one, and I'm making him watch the originals with me.

So we get through the first one. And this is what he says:

"Is that what it was like for you?"

Because of course he's read my file, right? He had to of, before Monaco. That's protocol. And anyone who has read my briefing file _thinks_ _they know_. Thinks they know me, because they read a summary on a sheet of paper.

And you want to know what I did? I answered. I nodded and said more or less, minus the tagging along of a worthless person.

I told the truth, aren't you proud? I've been working one it for twelve years, the being honest part of life.

James Idian said nothing more. He put the next movie in and pretended like it never happened.

I can see it on his face. The curiosity is eating him alive. He wants to know more than he was permitted to read. He's not going to ask though, and I'm 97% sure I'm not going to tell him a single thing.

Would it be nicer to let him know? Easier to open up for once to another person besides you? Does saving my life gain him that level? I don't know. I just don't know anymore.

You're the only person I've ever worked with who never read that file. That's what you told me, that night in Rio. Coulson read it cover to cover, every note and attachment. Hill's seen what she needs to when she needs to but still knows more than most. I know Tony's read it. He doesn't hack into the SHIELD database to do anything but snoop around. Rogers got a copy of the briefing file. Banner read it over Tony's shoulder after persuading of how important it was to know your teammates. I watched them from the vents.

Everything you know about me is something I've told you. I like it better that way. I don't feel like I'm being spied on or betrayed.

It's a trust thing, right?

-Nat

December 16, 2012

Clint-

Brown hair, brown eyes, cheeky twenty one year old smile. Look who came back.

This is what happens when I find out he's never seen any of the Star Wars movies. How can you be a 21 year old and _never_ have seen at least one of six Star Wars movies? So he gets to come back and watch them with me.

And he brought Chinese. Chinese food and Star Wars.

James Idian says his best friend August is insanely jealous right now.

I think he feels bad for the fact I almost died, even though it wasn't his fault in the slightest and he saved my life after wards. But I could get used to this.

-Nat

December 16, 2012

Clint-

He tells me the goings-on of SHIELD, which is more than I get from Rogers or even Stark.

Tony Stark, who can't keep his nose out of anyone else's business for more than five minutes, can't even tell me as much as James can. _That_ is saying something. Though Tony hasn't actually been doing much more than sitting in his workshop for hours on end for a while now, I think. Not that I would know, seeing as I'm not allowed out of this bed.

But of course, of course. It's all chaos. Doesn't everything work that way? On that outside, we're order. Organization and efficiency in tight clothes, wielding weapons. But once on the inside, the entropy unfolds. Nothing but a descending pyramid of absolute chaos.

Apparently, Fury's gone batshit crazy in the last week or so. James says he yells at people a lot more, and mumbles stuff about how he can't find a decent agent anywhere in his mess. Well of course that's true, with you gone on what might as well be a different planet and me stuck in Stark Tower, wasting away to nothing. Though, why he's crazy is anyone's guess. James Idian is only a Level 5, after all, and doesn't do things like crawl through air vents to spy on spies.

He'll learn eventually.

Because Fury's losing his mind, Hill has been the one running stuff for the most part. She sent Rogers out with a team, up to Canada to inspect some intercepted nuclear threat from a mafia boss in the wilderness. Wood and dirt and gunshots…sounds like every other trip up north I've ever had. Throw in some piranhas and a robotic bear and it's a real party.

How is it that _no one_ still believes those things happened to us? Weirder shit has gone down.

I have never been happier to be on required medical leave. If I had to go to Canada _again_, I might shoot myself. Mostly because Wilson would figure out I was there and come track me down, blabbing shit about how sexy our babies could be, blah blah blah. He's an idiot; just an idiot. No matter how many times I kill him, he keeps coming back. Is it wrong of me to wish that he would just stay almost dead for a while longer?

But Hill also happens to be at lost with what to do. I suppose there are no huge threats occurring around the world at the moment, and if there are, she is either not responding on purpose or being controlled by the council. I would hope the latter is true, for her sake. Or maybe not, because if she's being controlled by the council, she's one of them.

It's like she's been taken to the dark side.

Star Wars reference. Yes!

-Nat

December 18, 2012

Clint-

How much time have you ever spent with Pepper Potts? Because I will trade you some. I mean, count up the few weeks I worked for her back in 2010 and that's more than two full months of time spent around her.

Okay, so she's not annoying. She's just…a girl. And she talks about dresses and shoes and fancy galas and Tony- so much Tony. The only other person I really know who is my same gender is Maria Hill, and she and I don't exactly see eye to eye half the time.

Pepper is sort of like Maria. You would think, after working with Tony for so many years, she would understand some things. Like how some people just don't follow rules. I swear she and Rogers could have an entire like _tea party_ where they talk about following rules. And how sometimes all a person wants is some vodka. And a good game of Halo.

Not red wine and a romantic comedy.

Definitely not the romantic comedy.

Does she have it in her head that we're going to be friends? I feel like she should know by now that that's not going to happen. Besides the fact that I just don't have friends, I can't stand being in the same room with her for more than five minutes.

I do have to admit though- she can cook. That's more than I can say for a lot of people I know, including myself.

-Nat

December 18, 2012

Clint-

Pepper has told me that Tony has gone into party planning stage. Apparently he's hosting this huge thing to celebrate the world not ending in 3 days. She says he does it a lot, or used to. It helps take his mind off…everything, I guess.

Can you imagine: Tony Stark, a party planner? Maybe he has a list he carries around to write down ideas. I bet all that's on there is "Buy booze- get drunk" and "Wear Iron Man suit."

I don't know. The last Tony Stark hosted party I went to ended with the half explosion of his house in Malibu, one of his suits getting taken, and then Fury was called in so we could make sure he stopped almost dying. Coulson got to babysit and I got to play innocent office aid while threatening the asshole to hold his tongue.

God, I just don't want to remember it anymore.

-Nat

December 18, 2012

Thor, though, is apparently coming back to Earth soon. I'm not sure where this information comes from- I just assumed he showed up when he felt like it. Since when have we been able to communicate between realms? Surely Asgard is on that list of places where none of the networks get cell service.

What? You mean to tell me that Verizon doesn't work on the other side of space? Outrage!

I wouldn't mind him coming back. It would make things a lot more interesting around here. Or maybe entertaining would describe it better. He told me back in May that his greatest wish was to learn to use the toaster so he could heat up his own pop tarts. Some girl named Darcy had to do it for him before, and I guess it was an embarrassing experience.

Wouldn't everything be simpler if everyone just wanted pop tarts?

-Nat

December 19, 2012

Clint-

Why do people worry? Why do they look at me with that fucking pitying sympathy in their eyes when I ask for a glass of water? Trust me- I don't like it either, but IM NOT SUPPOSED TO MOVE. Can't they just mind their own damn business; worry about someone who needs it, like…Steve. Worry about what could be happening to his sorry ass up in the Canadian wilderness and leave me alone.

I don't need any of them. Next time I'll just get my own damn water.

-Nat

December 20, 2012

Clint-

Can you have an anxiety attack from making a list about what you'd regret if the world ended? Because I swear that's what just happened. One second Pepper is sitting on the end of the bed, talking about how she would miss the chance of raising a family of her own, and I'm pretty sure she started hyperventilating before she ran out of the room.

It's been ten minutes.

I only regret one thing, and I already told you what it was.

Does thinking about a traumatic world ending experience make you wish you'd lived differently?

My answer is no. A lot of people wouldn't understand why I say they, they're all "but you're life sucked" and blah blah blah about how poor and unfortunate of a soul I am. But I know you get it- the past is what makes you who you are today. It's where the life lessons you preach to your children come from, though I obviously don't have a kid to teach those important things to.

-Nat

December 20, 2012

Clint-

What would be your ultimate life lesson? Now I'm thinking about it. Stupid brain.

Can I take a guess? Something about how every person deserves a second chance. You tend to love those second chances, start over moments.

I can think of two right now: there's always time to change your path and something about how you can be happy no matter what if you have someone to share it with.

Throws me back to Bejing '09, in that prison. God we pissed off those guards, all our incessant jokes they were _so _sure was disguised terrorism. Some people, I tell you. Just can't take a good joke.

-Nat

December 21, 2012

Clint-

Ever had a grown man with the maturity level of a two year old drop to his knees on your bedroom floor and beg you to attend his party? This, coming from the man who reminds me on a constant basis that I can't fight him because I can't walk. And he wants me to come to his party.

"You can have a reserved seat at the bar and not move all night…It'll be like bar rest. Sounds healthy. The perfect location to ruin the dreams of drunken idiots while they slobber over you. I can even carry you in."

HIS EXACT WORDS. Exact. _Bar rest_.

What am I, a trophy? An intimidation factor? There so he can say, "I know that girl at the bar. Breath on her and she'll kill you even though she can't move."

Like he's just inviting bastards to come slave at my side, with their puppy dog eyes and drunken smiles.

I don't know why I said yes. I just did. I shouldn't go, but I can't pass up the opportunity for a good drink and a change of scenery. A new environment to talk to people in, where I don't feel so helpless and weak and _dependent_.

-Nat

December 21, 2012

Clint-

Pepper is helping me get ready. I suppose she does have her area of expertise, and attending these sorts of parties fits right in. Though I've don't this a trillion times before, but I think she's just trying to be helpful. And for once, I think I'll let her. I didn't really want to do my own hair anyway. She's trying to do this weird reverse French braid and twist…I don't really get the point. I can't just curl it and be done, why? Instead we have to use five thousand bobby pins to get it to stay up.

And, lucky me, I get the fabulous opportunity to borrow one of her dresses. I said no three or four times, but I guess when I start talking about specific stories each one of my own dresses holds as she looks through them, it's taking it a step to far. But now I've got a short black dress lying across my bed. It's not too tight and covers the new scars across my back, so I suppose it will do. You'll be happy to know that I crossed the line at wearing heels. I can barely move as is, I don't need the added issues of balance. My converse will work just fine, thank you.

-Nat

December 22, 2012

Clint-

Why did I agree to go? Why couldn't I see it, the fact that this party was one big fucking bad idea?

It's 4 a.m. and I can't sleep. My back hurts like hell, which is partly my fault since I shouldn't have gone anyway, and my mind wont fucking shut up and it keeps thinking about you and I get sad and angry all over again.

I kept waiting. I sat at that bar with the drooling idiots, waiting for you. And I knew- I knew you weren't coming, but I waited anyway. Damn it was stupid. You weren't coming, you weren't going to walk into the room with that "I'm right here" smirk on your face. No dancing, no party crashing through some out of control joke.

It was stupid, but I waited and watched the door.

Dammit Clint, I waited for you.

I always will. I would've been happy- no, I would've been more than happy- if you'd shown up. Given me a reason to be wearing the dress and the makeup and have my hair done up all nice.

"I like you're sweatpants and t-shirt more," you would've whispered in my ear while we danced.

You would've pretended you didn't appreciate the effort to look nice and I would've pretended I wasn't doing it all for you.

God, Clint, you're the only reason I do half the shit we do. I feel like it's about time you knew that.

Everything seemed to be alright. No one could tell I was sort of falling apart by the lack of your presence. At least until the song came on.

They played the song. _Our_ song. I remember it word for word.

That's about when I lost it. I wasn't supposed to leave unless Steve was there to help me, but I couldn't stand it, so I left. I shakily and slowly walked from the room. Steve, of course, noticed and followed me out because that's what Steve does. I collapsed on the front steps because when you have a recovering back, you aren't supposed to walk- there's a reason for that. And that's where they found me, holding myself just barely together.

What do you do when the one person you want to see, the one person you _need_ is the only one who isn't there?

I just can't take it anymore, Clint. I can't stand being alone. It's too much like before.

And I want you here to tell me everything is going to be okay. So you can do that thing where you rub behind my ears to get me to relax and because you're you, you'd stay in my room until I fell asleep and even then you wouldn't leave. To hold my hand and rub my knuckles so the nightmares won't come like I know they're going to.

I'm doomed to not be sleeping tonight. I might actually just never sleep again.

-Nat

December 24, 2012

Clint-

Christmas is so much different when you're celebrating it with a group of people who are actually into the holiday. We can't just sit next to each other on the floor in front of the fireplace with a cup of coffee and a half empty plate of those store bought cookies you love and stare into the flames. You would tell me a story about Christmas with the circus and I would think about the Christmases I've never had.

Definitely not my favorite time of year. It's too damn cold and everyone is too damn cheerful. Kids are too greedy, people are too stressed. There's too much food for people who don't need it.

But Christmas with Tony Stark involves a tree. A rather large tree. And they have to decorate it- I think that was Pepper's doing.

It's not time yet. I don't have to put on the fake smile and pretend I'm having a good time. I'd rather be on a floor with a fire and our routine book giving and chili macaroni for dinner, but I'm going to have to receive useless shit from people and give them stuff in return, I suppose- teammates do that, I guess- and eat turkey Pepper spends all day making. But that's tomorrow.

Tonight, Bruce is out doing something secretively _Bruce_. Tony took Pepper out to dinner. Steve and I went to church.

That's right. I went to a church. Is it a sin to go to church if you don't believe in God, or does it not matter?

I wasn't going to go, but Steve had that look all over his face. That pitying "don't make you leave me alone on Christmas Eve" look. You had that once, 2008 when I was in medical after a…well, fucked up mission. They wanted to monitor my concussion and I was going to make you leave, go sleep in an actual bed, and you just looked at me like I was insane for suggesting it.

I hate to admit that it was sort of relaxing. He made me sit in a wheel chair though, and I pretended not to mind it. We sat in the back- well, I sat and he stood. I guess he goes there a lot because people kept calling him Henry. He told them all I was his sister Julia, home from Afghanistan because of an injury. Not such a bad liar, that one.

There was a couple in front of us though. The girl couldn't have been older than 22, and the boy not much older than that. They held hands the entire time and were sickeningly cute. She was obviously showing off her engagement ring, but hey. Her ring, she can do what she wants.

Do you know when the last time I cried was? After you woke up on the helicarrier in May. And before that? Budapest. Maybe. The last time someone besides you _saw_ me cry? Never happened. I started crying in that church though. The people were too happy and it was just so…calm, with the signing and praying. But that couple- they were kids. Well, barely, but that's not the point.

Do you know how many lives I've ruined of people just like them? How many young soldiers have died and left wives and husbands and children with nothing _by my hand_? And I'm not just talking about before, when I was the Black Widow's empty shell of a monster. Is it sickening to think that the hired guns we kill now are roughly the same? Maybe they have families to feed.

Way to get sentimental, Natasha. Ruin the moment for everyone.

Really makes you think twice about what you do.

Steve was really confused but he didn't ask questions. He just put his hand on my shoulder and let me cry.

Seeing people like that though, so insanely happy with what they have. It like a stab in the back. They don't know. They'll never have to know about this dark side of life we're tortured with.

Such _normal_ and _innocent_ people in comparison. I bet they don't lose sleep over nightmares, don't wake up sometimes wishing the world would just fall apart already so it could be over.

-Nat

December 25, 2012

Clint-

Merry Christmas, I suppose.

-Nat

December 30, 2012

Clint-

You left your jacket here. It still smells like you.

I remember buying this. An "I'm sorry I almost died again and scared you" apology gift. I drove…I don't know. A really long way to some random shit town in Argentina because I was just so angry with you.

Did I ever tell you this story?

It was after I ran out of gas and it was getting dark and I was walking in the direction of the town. A car pulls over on the side of the road and this man rolls down the window, an old man and his old wife in their beat up truck that looked like it shouldn't have been working anymore.

He called me honey and asked if I needed a right in that sweet way that only a grandfather could. They smiled and I climbed into the bed of the truck, spent the ride watching the sun set and the stars come out and trying to figure out how long you were going to be mad for.

The town was small and there wasn't much there, so I thanked the man and his wife and wandered around in my thoughts for a little. I saw it on the street corner, the jacket. Hanging on a wall with others by another man packing up his things for the night. It was perfect, the moment I saw it. Everything about it screamed Clint Barton, and even looking at it now I can't explain why.

I paid a shitload of money for it, loads more than it actually cost, and the toothless man who made it thanked me probably seven thousand times before taking the rest of his things and walking off in the dark. It was warm too, and I ended up wearing it after the temperature dropped to…I don't know, really cold.

You shook me awake the next morning. It wasn't the first time I saw that pure look of panic on your face but it was the first time I didn't fight it when you just wrapped your arms around me and whispered, "_Never_ do that to me again." Coulson was really mad at us when we missed extraction and you laughed it off and blamed the coat. It comes with us everywhere, worn SHIELD patch on the sleeve and all. You had it in Moscow, Paris, Bratislava, Manila, Budapest, Istanbul…everywhere.

Yet here it is.

-Nat


	10. January

January 1, 2013

Clint-

2013 is apparently supposed to be a happy year, now that we've all survived the apocalypse and shit. We can focus on moving forward, right?

It doesn't feel that happy to me.

At least I didn't have to go to Tony's goddamn party. It's a wonder he managed to run the company for as long as he did without seriously fucking some stuff up.

-Nat

January 7, 2013

Clint-

They say my back is improving, if you care even a little.

-Nat

January 9, 2013

Clint-

Do you miss me, wherever you are?

-Nat

January 9, 2013

Clint-

You probably don't. Having way too much fun being the main man for once, not having to sit in the shadows and watch me do all the work.

-Nat

January 9, 2013

Clint-

I hope you don't have to do drastic acting to play mind games with whoever you're screwing over.

You're a shit actor, as I've told you before. Never can keep that cheeky smile off your face. The thugs and warlords aren't fond of cheeky smiles.

-Nat

January 10, 2013

Clint-

James Idian stopped by today to say…I don't know. Goodbye? Hello? Do I even care? He's off to Singapore for some recon/surveillance exercise that has to do with drug trafficking.

Reminds me of the first Batman movie, but that could just be because I watched it recently.

I don't know why he had to tell me this, but whatever appeases those who still have souls. Not like I could run away or anything.

-Nat

January 21, 2013

Clint-

Do you ever wish you could just forget?

Like you woke up one day and found out it was all just one really bad dream, and you were still six years old, your whole life waiting.

Banner said yes.

Steve said no- he's learned too many valuable things from being Captain America.

Tony just wishes he hadn't yelled at his dad before he died.

Thor said yes because he believes things could have turned out differently between him and Loki, but also no since he then never would have met us, or this Jane Foster whom we've never met.

This is what happens when everyone plays a game of "Let's get booze and bother Natasha." Stark gets philosophical when he's _really_ drunk, and he asks this question: What is your biggest regret. And the follow up? Would you give up what you have to start over.

Now they're all mostly passed out on the floor of my room. Well, Steve's not. He can't get drunk, so he's just staring at the wall and pretending he doesn't know I'm awake. Thor's not even drunk, but after Tony passed out, he probably thought it was some weird Midguard thing and just did the same. Banner is slumped over in the chair. He snores.

And me? Well, I don't get drunk. You know that, but no one else does.

I know your answer. Your biggest regret is your brother, and not being able to save him. Would you start over? No. You wouldn't give any of these people a reason either; you'd just say no and stare at them until they moved on because they don't know shit about you or us or why you would rather live with the horrors than forget everything that made you who you are.

I don't regret much. I mean, sure, maybe if my parents hadn't died in the fire, I wouldn't have been enslaved as a KGB child robot murderer at the age of nine. I wouldn't have a ledger threatening to burst. But if none of that had happened, I wouldn't have been the Black Widow. You never would've spared my life, and we wouldn't be here ten years later. Figuratively speaking.

I don't believe in destiny or fate or any of that shit. Someone else was pulling the strings until I broke free.

But, in case you were wondering, I wouldn't trade the last ten years for anything.

You probably already knew that.

-Nat

January 22, 2013

Clint-

Tony is a really awful hungover person. He just snaps at everyone a lot. Banner hasn't left his room. Thor is making poptarts, and Steve says he's helping but I don't think he understands Tony's toaster either.

Apparently it's our fault he's this way, because we didn't stop him, as we were told by Pepper this morning. Steve apologized but I just shrugged my shoulders and told her I wasn't even sure what number we were one. I don't get drunk very easily, so I don't count. So technically, it's all still Tony's fault.

Slow clap for function-enhancing alcohol repressors.

-Nat

January 27, 2013

Clint-

I miss you, you know.

Mostly at night. How many times do I have to watch you die anyway? But of course, this is normal. Happens a lot. I wake up alone, and have a moment of panic followed by a moment of calm because, hey, you're just across the hall, probably doing the same thing.

Except you're not. And the panic comes back. I don't know where you are. You could very well be dead or dying or seriously injured and I can't do anything about it.

I think that's what kills me the most. You've been gone for long periods of time before. Before all the Loki-take-over-the-world shit, you were at the SHIELD base for a good five months. But I was also off in Austria, and then Russia, collecting stories to tell you when we both got back. Now I'm just here, sitting around and waiting. My mind has too much free time to think about things I don't want to think about. They only lead to more nightmares

I hate waiting.

Before now I thought I just missed having you here to, well be here. To make it all go away like you're so good at, so we can get back into our routine of shutting out the world. But I think it's more than that. I don't just miss you. I miss your laugh, and how you hug me even when I tell you not to. How you always know what to say, and the way you never dance around my feelings because I'm not fragile, dammit, like everyone seems to think I am. You have this way of saying exactly what you mean when you need to that no one else seems to be able to do around me. I miss having someone to talk to.

And I really miss having you here. Even when you're super pissed at me, you bring this air of safety. I don't need protecting, but sometimes it's nice to know there's someone there when you need them.

I miss you, Clint. Yes, I said it. I'm practically compromising myself but who really gives a shit anyway?

I miss my partner.

I miss my best friend.

-Nat

January 29, 2013

Clint-

It's snowed for three days straight now. Not much, just that light rain snow that makes everything super miserable and gray and cold. So damn cold.

No one is very good at making hot chocolate, but then again- they are being compared to the best. Steve is decent, so he's been promoted, according to Tony.

The whole team ate breakfast on the floor of my room. It's the first time in a few days we've all been here, Pepper included, so apparently that makes it Bug Natasha Really Early in the Morning Day. Tony was in Malibu. Banner just got back from…somewhere. Thor is staying for a few more days before he flies over to New Mexico to spend the rest of his time on Earth with "Lady Jane" and "Friend Darcy, Keeper of Pop Tarts." I blame this Darcy chick for his weird obsession. Nobody else here even likes pop tarts.

Steve made waffles and we watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off, since Steve hasn't seen that either and Banner and Tony agreed it was necessary.

This was one of the first movies you made me watch with you, way back when we were still living on the helicarrier and getting yelled at by Coulson for every tiny thing that happened. That air vent exploded? Barton and Romanoff. Paintballs covering the hallway? Barton and Romanoff. The tables are missing? Barton and Romanoff. Junior Agents are hiding? Barton and Romanoff.

Remember the time the washer backed up and flooded the whole floor of the ship and Coulson came straight for us and we swore it wasn't actually our fault, and we didn't think it was, but in the end it ended up being our laundry from the previous day's paintball war that was being washed? Fury was so pissed.

We built a fort in the meeting room once, too. How much hell we must've given Coulson, acting like five year olds.

Twenty bucks says Stark pulled a Ferris Bueller every other day of the week back when he was in school. I wouldn't put it past a twelve year old to skip class and steal a car.

Then of course, after the first round of waffles, Thor was still hungry so Pepper made more and we watched one of the Indiana Jones movies. I don't remember which, I fell asleep about halfway through and woke up with my face covered in whip cream.

They're assholes, the whole lot of them.

-Nat

January 30, 2013

Clint-

Fury called me into his office this morning. He sent someone to pick me up and I had to sit in a wheelchair and everyone had those pitying stares again.

I brought my gun with me this time, sitting loaded on my lap. That sure wiped the sad smiles off their faces.

Maria told me I'm insane.

Only a little, darling. Only a little.

I was seriously hoping he was telling me my medical leave was being cut short because of how already and totally healed my back is and all that, but he didn't. Much to my dismay, he was simply letting me know that in addition to a physical examination, I was going to have to pass a mental test too.

Oh joy.

Have you ever had one of these? Who am I kidding, we all have. Fury says min are different though.

In order to pass _my personalized _mental test, I have to have a recorded amount of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep for two nights in a row and they do a bunch of weird shit with monitors and screw with my head some more.

It's like fucking therapy all over again.

-Nat

January 30, 2013

Clint-

28 more days of this torture and I'm free at last.

-Nat

January 30, 2013

Clint-

What will they do if I don't pass the mental examination?

Shit, Clint. I'm not going to pass. Even assassins can't lie to brain monitors. I'll be put on probation until my sleep patterns return to normal.

I haven't slept more than 3 hours a night in seven weeks, Clint.

So basically I'm screwed.

-Nat

January 30, 2013

Clint-

It only leaves one question to wonder: who tipped them off? SHIELD never would have requested a mental exam if someone hadn't told them I needed to be monitored.

I don't need to be monitored. I need to go back to work to take my mind off everything else.

There's nothing fucking wrong with me.

-Nat

January 30, 2013

Clint-

Right?

There isn't.

-Nat

January 31, 2013

Clint-

It's almost three a.m.

I just watched you die for the eighth time this week.

It's only Thursday.

Thursday. I didn't even make it three hours.

Thursday. I have a check-up for my back at ten.

Thursday, January thirty first, two thousand thirteen.

…

Have you ever had them come out of your nightmares? Sat with your eyes open and watched the flames grow closer and the men without eyes take steps towards you one by one?

When I'm awake I can hear them breathing. I can see them, the group of people who've died because of me. Coulson is in front.

Coulson.

He whispers my name and there's blood all down his face. Natasha Natasha Natasha. Over and over and over.

There's people behind him, others I recognize. SHIELD agents, all dead. A few random people who are just blurry faceless figures.

A nine year old boy.

When I close my eyes, I'm chained to a wall. There's a window, and on the other side you're in a chair. Tied to a chair, with a bomb strapped to your chest. And I can hear myself screaming but the only thing I see is those red numbers ticking down.

With ten seconds left, you always look up. You look up and you stare right into my eyes and you mouth something. But before you finish, the bomb goes off and I wake up surrounded by people who are dead and no way out.

You don't always explode. Sometimes I have to watch you bleed to death just out of my reach. I'm always chained to a wall. I suppose that's supposed to mean something, some unconscious sign telling me that I'm weak and helpless.

I'm not. Or I shouldn't be.

-Nat

January 31, 2013

Clint-

Thursday, January thirty first, two thousand and twelve.

Thursday.

Seven bullet holes make a square across my ceiling.

Seven. Seven holes, seven seven seven. The gun went off like bang bang bang.

Everything hurts and it feels heavy and there's these voices just talking and talking but they don't say anything but my name over and over. One of them sounds like you, but I don't know. How long does it take to forget what someone's voice sounds like?

-Nat


	11. Part III (February)

_August 8, 2013_

There is a letter for everyday in February. Each one has a date written in neat cursive in the corner and his name on the top line. Their condition, however, betrays what might have been thought of as sane and pensive and elegant.

He lays all 28 on the bed in order, scrutinizing the variations in levels of destruction. Some are simply crumpled; others have perfect lines drawn across the whole paper. Several looked as though they'd been repeatedly nailed with darts or knives or whatever Natasha had managed to find that would work.

Only two had words, and even then not many.

February 14, 2013. Valentine's Day. Clint leaned over and looked at it carefully, trying to make sense of the four words written across the line just under his name.

_I hate you sometimes_.

Even through different levels of time, he could feel the viciousness in her words that told him she really meant it then, every last letter of the three words _no one_ wants to hear from the person they care about. And the fourth word, meant to throw him off the truth.

Of course, he hated her sometimes too. They'd shared those words back and forth more times than they'd care to count in the last ten years. In the beginning, she hated everything. The way he talked, the way he was always watching and hovering and _caring_, and she'd had no problem letting him know.

Then she hated how he laughed things off when it was serious. She hated how he seemed so carefree. She hated how he didn't scream at night like she did. His impulsive behavior. His lack of self-preservation when she was angry. How sometimes he didn't fight back when she wanted him to.

And he hated how she didn't trust him. He hated the walls she built up, how she pretended to be this emotionless void. He hated her tendencies to almost get herself killed. He hated how she pretended she would rather die that let him help her. He hated how she talked about herself as if she was nothing, unimportant.

But he could see it there, all laid out between the lines. The ferocity of this hate was more than just petty insults thrown in a time of anger. This was real hate, exactly what he'd told her she should never have to feel towards any person.

"_You don't hate the bad guys, Tasha. It takes so much more energy and focus to hate than to simply ignore. You hate what they _do_, but you don't hate them. The men you pity because of the fact they resort to the levels they do to make themselves feel worth something. Then you help them realize it before you end their miserable existence," _he'd said to her curled up figure in the corner once upon a time.

The pain she had been in, and the fact he was the cause of that pain felt like a knife through his chest.

The second letter was dated February 28. On the very last line, after rows and rows of evenly spaced out punctures on the paper, was the five word question he always feared her asking.

_What is wrong with me?_

He stares at the paper, his own anger only growing. How could he let them do this, send him away? Why hadn't he fought it? Why had he nodded like the good little soldier and boarded the jet?

Why hadn't he at least said goodbye?

A memory surfaces across his brain when he slams his eyes shut. The floor of a hotel room, tangled in bed sheets covered in blood. He can feel himself moving, back and forth. A very different redhead had asked him that same question.

"_What is wrong with me?" She looked up at him, her wide green eyes holding nothing but pure and honest fear. It's the first time he's ever seen her scared._

_He tightened his grip on her, and looked from her burning gaze to the blood dripping down her arm from the four gashes across her pale skin. Her screams echoed in his head. "Nothing is wrong with you, Tash," he growls. "It's the rest of the world that's fucked up."_

He left because he was afraid they'd take her away from him. That's what happens when an agent is compromised. Disbandment. Memory wipes, sometimes even death depending on how far deep. The Council was twisted.

And yet, he lost her anyway.

He hated himself sometimes, too.


	12. March

March 1, 2013

Clint-

Has it always been you and me against the world? Have we always been so fucked up that we throw the blame on everyone else for our problems?

I know. I know that you say it's not our fault- manipulation and destruction of choices, blah blah blah and all that shit.

But have you ever wondered if maybe it is? Maybe I stood there at four years old and told them what I wanted to do- I don't know, I don't remember much of anything from before I was like twelve. I mean, you learned to be an archer by choice, after running away from home by choice. So maybe a part of the reason we're so screwed up is because of ourselves, and part of it is because of what has happened since.

You say there's nothing wrong with me. You _always_ say that, with such confidence. No, Tash. It's the rest of the world that has the fucking issues. Think about it this way: if there wasn't something wrong with me, would I wake up at 2 in the morning, sitting on the kitchen floor and shaking, shattered glass and my own blood all around me, and not remember how I got there? Would I spend some nights so absolutely paranoid that I turn on the shower and sit in the back corner with my gun in my hand because it's where I feel safest?

If there isn't something wrong with me, what am I always hiding from, Clint? Because I don't know anymore.

Loki comes in my nightmares. He stands there, a dark shadow, and just looks at me. And I hear his words in my head, and I feel that same fear I did last May. I know you'll remember exactly the ones I'm talking about. You watched the security footage enough you probably have it memorized still.

Is it wrong of me to think I'm still hiding from him? Is it wrong to be afraid that he'll come back? Is it wrong to be scared that he'll take you from me again?

My brain won't stop thinking and I need it to so I don't weigh all the options. You can't be compromised again, not like that. I don't think I could handle it a second time. But my mind keeps jumping to the same thing now and I think it's the nightmares and lack of sleep talking because it can't be true, it just can't, that I've lost you again to the bastard. That you're going to walk through this door any minute with your eyes that awful too bright blue and that this time I'm not going to be able to stop it.

Is it wrong of me to be absolutely terrified that you trust me to kill you? I think about that a lot, the day it was all over and we walked around the city while everyone else ran off and you looked at me and whispered, "Tasha, if anything like this ever happens again, I need you to promise that you won't hesitate to kill me." Then I slapped you and said you weren't allowed to ask me things like that and called you a bastard and stalked off.

I don't want to kill you, Clint. I don't want to think there is ever a possibility that I might have to. Barcelona 0'5 was bad enough and all I did was pretend to kill you so they would chase me instead since you were being all martyr-ish and sacrificial, and I would rather never have to do that again either.

Never would I voluntarily take away the only part of my life that ever makes sense. You should know that too. I need you to much, Clint. I wouldn't survive a week here without you. All I'm really living off now is the promise you'll be back soon, and that's just from Fury.

I don't really hate you. How can you hate the only person who's ever truly cared?

-Nat

March 25, 2013

Clint-

The results from my last physical came back and I suppose I passed. Well, I was ready to get tested on that back in like January, but I guess it's still good news. Everything is healed and back in order, I just have to keep doing those stupid stretches to "strengthen" my muscles again. My data crap from the mental examination was sent in yesterday, so I should be cleared entirely by the end of the week.

Sleeping for a whole week with those neurological scanner things is a serious pain in the ass.

Even more a pain in the ass is the preparation, the randomly showing up in the lab and having Banner, not even looking up, say "Let me guess- you need something to help you sleep that they won't be able to detect." Of course, then he explained that he and Tony had already figured it all and gave me this bottle of pills. If you want to be technical about it, it is cheating the system. But I don't _really_ need a mental health check in the first place, so jokes on them. I'd be perfectly fine if you were here and I wasn't cooped up in that building so much.

I'm back at the apartment right now. All our furniture is still here- everything is just blank and desolate and sort of creepy silent. But it's so much more relaxing without Stark's incessant noise and explosions shaking the building and Rogers always being everywhere you don't want him to be and Pepper's heels on the hardwood. You can focus your brain when the only light is what the streetlights cast around shadows on the wall and there's just _silence_ for once. Except that goddamn pipe that always creaks. That's still here.

It's hard to believe, what with all the screaming and shattering glass and gunshots, we never got kicked out of this place. I suspect SHIELD had something to do with that. The other people in the building must like it- it would be like living in the tower without all the assholes around to be annoying all the time, only cheaper and simpler.

I remember when we first moved in here. The day Fury told us we had to share an apartment since we wouldn't be in it much anyway and threatened to make us live on site with all the junior agents if we didn't just accept his offer. You make some asshole comment about us living together and the wall I kicked you into broke. Back then, of course, we just had the SHIELD issue, post-base-living "furniture rations"- the two beds, that awful table, the refrigerator that was always humming. We bought a couch a month later and the guy at the store thought we were making a gift registry for our wedding, and you had to stop me from punching him so we wouldn't get thrown out.

You know, those drugs Banner gave me really did help. I wish they could be a constant thing- it's so nice to sleep for nine hours at once.

And I didn't have nightmares.

Dreams. I, Natasha Romanoff, had actual _dreams_. _That were happy_ and stuff.

Though they might not be considered dreams. They were mostly just memories, but happy memories. The-ones-you-talk-about-at-weddings-as-big-funny-stories-in-a-person's-life kind of happy memories.

You were in all of them. Imagine that. I mean, I had _so_ many happy memories from being a mindless Russian child soldier/robot/puppet It's hard to believe more of those weren't thrown in there.

All too well is how I remember them. Too well for being in a drug induced sleep. But I guess they were all already there in the first place.

We had a mission back in '02, one of the first they sent us on after I was cleared for duty. We were supposed to catch a train from Edinburgh to some other random Scottish city, like real tourists, but we missed the train because you couldn't read the damn map. I had to hotwire a car, and you wouldn't let me drive because it was "ungentlemanly like" if we were supposed to fit in. Then of course you found a CD in the player of the car we took and you spent the whole ride singing a load of Beatles songs and didn't know half the words. Octopus's Garden was your favorite and you made me listen to it nearly 45 times until I sang it with you.

Then of course we had to stop the deranged man who was trafficking genetically mutated sheep that were actually time bombs…the less fun part there.

Riding on the bottom of a police helicopter in Berlin while they searched the city for us- that was fun. Even after you almost fell off from laughing at their stupidity.

Brussels, '07, when we had to the target switched locations and ended up spending the night at a gay bar. The look on you face when I told you we had to switch jobs is one I may never forget- the look of pure disgust and anger and then the realization that I got to witness the whole thing from the building across the street. You were so pissed that you almost blew the operation by nearly getting thrown out.

The first time we ever got caught was in Frankfurt, and even then it was on purpose. They tried to tie us up with ropes. There we were, sitting in a room tied to chairs and you were just talking aimlessly to pass the time, something about flowers and lions. You didn't even realize I had gotten free until I cut your ropes too and tipped the chair to make you shut up. After, you refused to talk to me for three days because I wouldn't tell you how I got free.

Probation. There are always good memories of being grounded, mostly because those are the times we gave Coulson the most shit around base to get back at him for keeping us there. There are still burn marks on the walls on the fifth floor from when we rigged the office chairs so we could drag race. The ruined mats from the first paintball war are in the storage closet in the training room. You can tell where windows have been replaced from hallway soccer. A collection of cables sits in a box on the roof because we're the only ones who know it's there. They never found the microphone system we set up in the vents across the building. Or the food stash that caused the rat infestation a few years ago.

Rio is one of the places I remember the best, after the shooting match and the fire and near death experience and all. I remember waking up on the shit bed in the shit safe house the next morning and you being all worried and stuff, talking about smoke poisoning and the near 3rd degree burns across my arms and all I could think about was the fact that, when I was lying on the ground unable to breath and barely conscious, you had called me Nat, and no one had ever done that before. I'd always been Natasha up to then, or Romanoff, all formality and no real sense of self. Then suddenly I was Nat, and then I was Tasha and Tash and it felt like we finally had a connection.

And of course there's Budapest. I had a dream on…Thursday, I think it was. But not all Budapest was happy. Most of it actually wasn't, at least from what I remember, and tis memory wasn't very clear. Just a bunch of blurry things and some muddled words that I think you said, and I don't really know.

Oslo 2010- I remember Oslo. Our extraction got delayed after we finished the mission early- when all goes to shit, improvisation is necessary and all- and you were all sarcastically pissed since you didn't get that dance I promised you because of the mess we indirectly caused. It was like 3 in the morning when I was getting a glass of water- imagine that, I couldn't sleep- and you come into the kitchen of the hotel room all tired and still pretend angry. You reminded me that I owed you a dance, and you put on our song and you wouldn't even let me close the refrigerator. How romantic- a refrigerator light dance. And I purposely stomped on your foot after you said that.

There's a picture in your box from Oslo. In that exact hotel- I'm pinning up my hair and watching you in the mirror. It was right after you asked how was able to pin knives in my hair; I told you it was a trade secret. You pouted for a good five minutes before you got the camera out and all was well in the world of Clint Barton. There are a couple more pictures from that mission, just of us in the hotel, making faces at the camera as we waited to leave.

I've gone through all of them, you know. All the pictures. It's alright, sometimes. They make me angry sometimes, but mostly the one on your table. We're so unrealistically happy that it just sort of makes me want to shoot something.

But I think I'm gonna be okay. I'll be back to work soon and everything will get back to normal. Banner's still doing sciency stuff. Stark is still exploding various parts of the building. Pepper works, Steve does missions and boxes when he's home.

Routine is what I need right now. A simple schedule to work off of so I can fix…myself.

Normal.

Or as normal as we can get, right?

-Nat


	13. April

April 4, 2013

Clint-

Sometimes it's just so exhausting. It's too hard to pretend to be fine and dandy because no one really gives a shit about the truth.

But I hold the walls up anyway.

I wear the mask.

And I'm just so tired of it.

Because I'm okay. I'm okay, but I'm not fine at all. Not anymore.

-Nat

April 5, 2013

Clint-

Do you ever wish it would end?

Maybe SHIELD would just, I don't know. Let us go. No pain necessary. We could walk out and never look back, move out of the shit apartment. See the world without being required to kill people while doing it.

I couldn't do it myself, not alone. I've had enough alone. I'm too unstable.

If this ended, would they go away?

After a long enough time, do you think they would- the nightmares? Just fade off into the distance.

It's a nice thought.

-Nat

April 6, 2013

Clint-

Have you ever thought about just walking out?

Just disappearing one day. Off the grid. MIA. Not like we haven't done that before, but maybe for longer.

Maybe forever.

What would they do? Would they come after us, beg us to come back? Kidnap us and force us to come back?

Kill us?

Wipe our memories?

Throw us on the blacklist and sell our heads to the highest bidder?

That's what they did after I ran from the Red Room. A long line of dead mercenaries and guns-for-hire sits on my ledger, yet people continue to try. Sometimes I wonder how high the reward has gotten after all these years.

-Nat

April 7, 2013

Clint-

Today is my birthday. Well not really, but you know that- you were sitting right beside me when you made me pick a date out. I'm unofficially 29.

You've never missed my birthday before, you know? Even the year you were in Hong Kong and I was in Alexandria, you magically got Coulson to like teleport you there just for my birthday. You owed him a huge favor afterwards for getting you an alibi to disappear from your mission for two days and a jet to fly you to Egypt and he made you paint walls and fix the floor we had previously ruined in a paintball war in the training room.

I know you aren't going to magically appear here, and I'm not going to sit around and wait like I did back in December. Besides, I have a week full of mandatory physical therapy, even though I passed the fitness test, so I can start working again. Procedure, procedure, who really gives a shit.

And as no one else actually knows its my fake birthday, I guess I'll be celebrating it unenthusiastically and alone. No one really cares about 29 anyway.

I will forgive you for missing my fake birthday this year. Just please come back eventually.

-Nat

April 14, 2013

Clint-

And tomorrow I'm officially back on the list. I can work again. I can get out of this building and do something helpful to the world. What, I wonder, has Fury been doing without his A team anyway? I mean, you've been gone since July and I've been out of commission since October, sort of. Sure our track record has a lot of screw ups on it, but ten years of always getting the job done in the end, most of the time, is what puts us on top.

Pepper just came in with an armful of dresses and told me to pick one and put it on. Apparently my return to active service is a big enough occasion for Tony to drive us across New York to the most expensive pizza place he can find and buy us all dinner. I voted on sweat pants and Pepper gave me one of her Tony-are-you-serious looks. So now I have to put on this tight black dress and hope she doesn't try to force heels on me too. I think I'll be okay- I mean, a recovering back injury, even though it hasn't really been recovering since January, is enough of an excuse to not have to wear heels.

They are so lucky that I'm hungry. I don't complain as much when I'm hungry.

-Nat

April 14, 2013

Clint-

This has been bugging me for a while, you know. I never actually got a chance to ask you what you meant, about Budapest. About remembering Budapest differently. There was too much protocol and procedure and debriefing and when we finally got a moment alone just to talk, they whisked you away again.

So how do you remember Budapest that's so different from how I do?

-Nat

April 15, 2013

Clint-

It's not even seven and here I am, sitting in Fury's office. He's reviewing my test results right now, and he has that look on his face that tells me he's trying to make some terribly important decision. Because I may have officially passed all of them, but he knows. He knows I tricked the scanners. He knows from the way I'm sitting that even after the extra 2 unnecessary recovery months I got, my back still hurts.

It is all up to him. He just has to say okay and I'm free.

-Nat

April 15, 2013

Clint-

"I know you're not up to par entirely, Romanoff, but I'm going to clear you anyway. I'm tired of dealing with all these shitheads. Do not let me down, Agent."

So I'm clear.

I fly out to Paris in 14 hours on a transfer-interception. Great, right? The seduction of another fat old bastard so I can switch the important illegal information with a fake copy. Just what I wanted to be doing.

Steve is on my team now though. He's the only other one of us who is technically qualified to be a SHIELD agent, and here he is.

No offense to Steve, but I hope he doesn't stay. His first priority should be the Avengers crap. SHIELD work is our responsibility and I don't want that to change, it all comes back to routine stability and all that. You can't just change something that works after 10 years and expect no negative results.

I don't want to be Steve's partner. I'll be his teammate, sure, but you're my partner and you always will be and that's that.

-Nat

April 16, 2013

Clint-

I haven't been to Paris in a while.

Ah, Paris. The twinkling lights, the Eiffel Tower at night, the city of love and all that great crap.

Not many people have been on the shadier side of town. Not many people have been hiding out in a rundown apartment building as they await one of the several organizations out to kill them just to take the goddamn shot already.

But then again, not many people have been given a second chance in Paris. Not many people have started over. Not many people have met their best friend here.

I would say some sarcastic comment about how I'm such a lucky person, and Steve would say that too if I had said all that out loud, but you know I don't believe in luck. It's not really a concept I grew up with.

June twenty third, two thousand one. That was the day you finally showed up in that shitty apartment and held the gun to my head while you spouted your monologue about second chances and starting over and I rolled my eyes a few times.

I'm never really clear on what happened next, except that I screamed for some reason and I felt like my head was getting ripped in half. And you said you could help me if I only came with you and in that moment I was truly terrified I was about to die and I sounded like a five year old when I made you promise and you did. I remember collapsing on the floor at about this point, and that's when we heard the footsteps down the hall and I knew they'd come for me.

I think you helped me up and shoved me out the window after that, and somehow we were on the roof of the next building over and I couldn't really run but I did. And I passed out entirely in the helicopter, according to you, and the next thing I remember, some guy was trying to shove a needle in my arm and I nearly killed him.

I make wonderful first impressions.

Just ask Tony Stark. The first time I officially met him, we were in a donut store, he was hung over and dying, and I shoved a needle in his neck while Fury tried to explain how much of a problem he was.

When I first met Bruce Banner, I had to tell him SHIELD needed him to abandon his peaceful accident free life and come risk being around people like us, all the while trying not the be scared out of my mind of him and hating Coulson for making me go.

I managed to insult his family when I first met Thor, though I suppose it worked out in the end.

Pepper got to watch me, as her harmless office assistant, shove a guy into a desk and threaten to kill him. That was fun.

Coulson, I think, was the worst. The first time I met him, he nearly died. Honestly though, if I was mentally unstable still, you should have done a better job making sure I was weaponless. So for that one, I blame you.

Maybe though, our first meeting was the worst. I mean, there I was. This unstable and highly dangerous time bomb you were supposed to be eliminating. You'd heard I was lethal, deadly, and our first face to face encounter ended with you saving my life in two ways: one from the group of hired Russian guns that were supposed to bring me back dead and activated whatever twisted up shit was going on in my head, and one by bringing me back to New York and risking your own job for me, the hopeless case, because you thought you could fix me.

In the cell at SHIELD, I told you it was impossible, what you were trying to do. You said I couldn't know that, since no one had ever tried.

I'm going to tell you again that I can't be fixed, that even after all this time I'm going to be broken forever.

And your response would be, "You're not broken, Tasha. You never were. That's just the way they always wanted you to see yourself."

I'm broken now, without you here. I don't trust any of these idiots sitting across from me. They think they know what they're doing, but they're so young. I mean, sure, some of them are older than me. Like Steve, who is definitely not an idiot in that sense. But I can't rely on them to have my back. To them I'm Agent Romanoff, the Black Widow. I'm one of the best, and they think I can take care of myself.

And I can, but it's nice to have someone to rely on to watch your back.

Correction- it's nice to be able to trust you enough to always be there.

Except for now. When you're not.

-Nat

April 17, 2013

Clint-

It's weird to have an actual team on a "Seduce and Switch" mission, as one of the testosterone high children sitting across the room from me so gracefully called it while trying to explain the pan to Steve. And of course he winked at me while he said that, as obviously that's why I'm here. I forget sometimes that there are people in the world who think that's a woman's only purpose in the world, not to mention in our line of work.

Unfortunately, the knife missed his head by half an inch.

Fury's gonna be pissed when the Expense Unit turns in a form that says, "Added payment, knife hole in hotel room wall."

You know, it's usually just the two of us on these. You're the eyes and ears both in the rafters and on the floor because that's what you do, and I get to be the bait and distraction because that's what I do. And it mostly works. We only fuck it up every one out of three and it's never entirely our fault.

But all these extra voices in my ear aren't going to make anything easier. Especially if I have to deal with the remarks of these idiots, which I'm sure will be along the line of, "Dump him and come home with me tonight" and "I like that dress, but it would look better on the floor."

Is no one professional these days? Even you make better comments than that. Usually you are trying to test me without me getting caught. Like in Stockholm '05, when you made me play Never-Have-I-Ever while drinking with the target.

-Nat

April 18, 2013

Clint-

They sent us here three days before the mission actually takes place.

Are they trying to get operatives killed? Because I'm seriously very close to snapping.

Steve seems very worried about the nature of a "Seduce and Switch" mission. Honestly, you would think the guy was from the 40's.

See? Even on zero sleep I can still crack a lame joke.

He keeps asking me if I'm alright with this. My snarky retort probably didn't help…saying, "Rogers, I've been doing this since I was 15" definitely only made him freak out more. I can see it on his face, though he's doing a pretty good job hiding it from the others.

In his defense this is part of my job, being able to read people. And I'm good at my job. I've been able to read you for years. That's what makes us so good.

Tony also says it's what makes us the most annoying two people in the world, because we can have silent conversations with each other that don't require some sort of mind reading tech. We're just that good.

-Nat

April 19, 2013

Clint-

Paris makes my head swim, and not in the good lovey-dovey "I can't believe in I'm in Paris" way. More in the "there's something here and it's definitely not good" way. The way that gives you a constant headache you can't get rid of.

The apartment building is seventeen blocks split between two left turns and one right and several alley-way-cut-throughs from where we are now. If I stand on the balcony of the hotel room I can almost see it, but I'm not sure that's good.

I was out there for a good hour, and I didn't even realize it.

Until Steve called me in and asked if I was okay with that worried look in his eyes and his hands on my shoulders like he a doctor or something. Thankfully he thinks I'm just freaking out about the party tomorrow night.

Please. I could do a Seduce and Switch with my eyes closed, though it would ruin the great affect my eyes tend to have on men's will power.

Then there's always that warning from Fury in the back of my mind, the "don't fuck this up or _they_ won't let you come back" message he decided to pass on just before we left.

Of course I should have known this was a Council mission. They don't think I'm ready to be back out here, and they probably are on the verge of persuading everyone else of that too. That maybe I lost my touch somewhere in my suspiciously extended recovery. It's a prove-you-need-to-be-here type of mission.

So that makes it the council's fault that I'm stuck in a small hotel room with four children and Steve Rogers, King of All Things Gentleman.

Fury has once again been saved from facing my wrath.

-Nat

April 21, 2013

Clint-

I think it went alright.

We have the oh-so-important paper.

I also have four pairs of eyes trained on me, because we have a problem.

I remember entering the party. I remember finding my target and whispering in his ear as we danced. I remember that disgusting gleam in his eye when he thought he might get lucky last night. I remember hearing voices in my head.

And after that, trying to think about it brings the pain back to my head.

It's happening again, Clint. I can't tell them, but I can't remember anything after that and this can't happen, not again.

One of the snarky bastards is passed out on the bed. He has colorful bruises across his ribs and half his face is swollen and he reeks of sweat and alcohol. The others tell me I did that, last night at the hotel bar after we left the party. Because apparently I was drinking, and so was he. But I don't get drunk. They keep asking why and I can't remember why I hit him, except that he probably deserved to get a beating like that.

It's happening again and is it wrong to say I'm scared of what I might do?

There's no one here this time to stop it. No one else knows but you.

-Nat

April 23, 2013

Clint-

I get to be back for 12 hours. It feels like before now, the constantly being shipped off everywhere without a break. But that's okay. That's good actually. I just keep moving and don't give myself a chance to breathe and everything's okay.

I've remembered everything since Paris. Every annoying moment of debriefing with Hill and the terrified looks of everyone else around Base. Fury said he's keeping the "random act of aggression" out of the report since it technically happened after the mission had succeeded. And so the council won't kick his ass and ship me off for relocation and a new persona. I'm still scared of what could happen. What if I wake up one morning and there's a dead body in the street and blood on my hands? What do we- I- do then?

There is no 'we', not with you gone. It's just me, here, terribly alone.

That's why we were the best _team_ at SHIELD. Because you kept me here, tethered to reality. And when I thought I was slipping, I would just find you and it would be gone for the time being.

But what do I do now? You're not here. I don't know where you are. I don't know if you're coming back. I don't know if I'll still be savable if you do.

-Nat

April 23, 2013

Clint-

What happens if I slip too far?

Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm too unstable to be here, or anywhere. What with the insomnia and blanks and nightmares, I'm more of a hazard than a tool.

Do you remember the Jean Grey Incident? She blew up Alcatraz with her mind- unpredictable, uncontrollable, the hazardous tool. The greatest weapon and ultimate downfall of the mutant race.

I can't be that. That's what happens when the people with power lose their minds. I can't be the weak link of the chain. I can't be the person that you don't know if they're going to be useful or send it up in flames.

-Nat

April 24, 2013

Clint-

Long ass plane rides give your brain too much time to think. So do mountain top stakeouts. I knew there was a reason I hated these types of missions- the "the third truck from the front is carrying several boxes of explosives while the others are just decoys, and from the top of a mountain over a hundred feet away, even though neither of you are snipers, and you have a 30 second window to make sure it's up in flames and get out of there" type that involve too much sitting around and patience.

Sitting for long periods of time makes my back start hurting and my head start hurting and I don't want to find out what happens after that.

I'm here because Fury needed to get me out. He needed me away from SHIELD- it's the Council of Asses annual check-up days. They still are questioning me.

So here I am, sitting on top of a mountain. Captain America has graced me with his presence. He keeps looking at me like he wants to say something but doesn't at the same time. It's been his routine for the past two hours. Watch the road, stare at Natasha, check your watch, glance between Natasha and the watch, shake your head, watch the road.

Does he know his thoughts are written all over his face?

Every time I stand and pace across the rocks, he gets this worried crease between his eyebrows. He sniffs and glances at me, as if he thinks I don't notice. Then he checks his watch, runs his right thumb across his left wrist, and lifts back up the binoculars for another seven minutes and 23 seconds before he does it again.

He knows something's going on in my head. But he won't say anything. It's against the gentleman code.

My head is starting to pound more. The dull thudding kind of pain that makes you want to bang your head into a wall. If the ringing starts I know I'm screwed.

Then of course the voices will come.

There are bruises across my knuckles but I don't remember hitting anything recently.

Thirty minutes still until go time.

If I can make it that long.

-Nat

April 26, 2013

Clint-

One hundred people split between five separate cars died in Chile. Then we jumped off a cliff.

I've been in our apartment since I was released from debriefing. I can't go back to the Tower, not now. Steve will look at me with that worried face and disappointment all over it.

Because I said to just blow up the whole damn thing. Steve didn't have a clear shot of just the one truck and our window was closing, so I took the shot. I blew up the whole damn thing and ran.

And I yelled at him, when he was voicing his opinion about blowing up the truck. I yelled at him because his goddamn morals were too high and he cared too much when he shouldn't. We were there to get the job done and that's that, that's the way these things work. I didn't expect him to understand, being Mr. I-Only-Kill-Nazis from the 1940's, and I also didn't expect him to look at me like I'd just shot an innocent puppy.

"There's always a time to change, Natasha."

That's what he said to me. _There's always a time to change_.

There was. There was a time to change, back when I took the chance and left Russia behind. Not once, but twice. And since then I've just been trying to find stability. Stability and a place where I can be accepted.

That's obviously not here. The only place I've ever been accepted for _myself_ is SHIELD, more specifically in the office on the helicarrier where Coulson's belongings still sit, the office where we spent more time than here, in our apartment with people all around who have no idea who I really am. Who we really are. If you want to be more specific, I don't feel accepted anywhere you're not.

"You'll always be the same, Natasha. The same cold person unless you try and do something about it. You don't always have to be a reserved monster, you know."

That's when I grabbed the gun, blew up the convoy, and ran.

He said that like he knew everything in the world. Like he knew about me. But Steve Rogers doesn't know shit. He doesn't know anything about me, or what I've been through. He went under as a hero and spent seventy years being the center of attention while asleep and woke up still a hero.

But he's right, isn't he? I'm nothing more than a heartless monster, Clint. A killer. A thief. The kind of person who haunts children's nightmares. I do what I do because it's the only thing I know how _to do_. It's who I fucking am.

A monster.

And I can't change that. You can, Clint. You always can. But you're not here.

So I'm a monster.

-Nat

April 29, 2013

Clint-

When I close my eyes I see you. Your eyes are that awful crystal blew and your face set in stone, expressionless as you come towards me with a knife. I can't do anything. I can't move or scream. I can do nothing but watch as you slide the knife between my ribs like my skin is paper. The blood drip drip drips down my uniform and pools on your shoes and you just look at me because you don't care.

I deserve to die.

I don't want to need you this way. I don't want you to be the only thing to keep me sane, but the truth is I probably would have killed myself a long time ago if you weren't here.

The bullet through my head always seemed like the easier option until my head would hurt and my mind would go blank and I would momentarily forget why I wanted to.

There was always another guy that needed to be taken care of. Always another mission. Another greedy person looking to settle his rivalries, a person who could use the help of a freelance assassin who just happens to be among best.

Because people are cowards, Clint. They can't lose their own humanity, but they don't mind stripping a seventeen year old girl of hers, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. Because they think to themselves, "She wouldn't be here if this wasn't what she wanted to do."

They think she had a choice, another option. A home to go back to where a mother and father would tuck her into bed at night.

Because they are nothing more than greedy, selfish cowards.

But I'm the one who should be dead.

-Nat


	14. May

May 1, 2013

Clint-

Last year I was in Russia.

I was in the middle of an interrogation of a target I had been tracking for months. I had two days of the mission left, and you had one week of "muscle duty" at the tesseract facility before you were sent back to SHIELD. We would have a few days before you went back, but a few days would have been enough.

There was a phone call. Coulson, talking to the Russians.

I remember panic. Complete panic, because a mission was only interrupted on such an account in a case of extreme emergency.

"Natasha, Barton's been compromised."

Fear. I will never forget the fear that threatened to rip my body in half. I had to stop my hands from shaking and decided to be angry instead. The only way to help you was to get out of Russia as soon as possible, and for that I needed to be angry. So I was.

But I didn't get to go find you. I had to go to Calcutta and get Banner. I, a spy, had to get the man who turns into an uncontrollable rage monster to come peacefully to SHIELD and I had a feeling I couldn't just say please. Please would have worked on Rogers. Please would have worked on Tony if I'd held a gun to his head at the same time. But I got the Hulk. He only threatened to kill me once.

Even then I didn't get to come look for you. I could have found you faster than any machine, but they weren't looking for you. They were looking for Loki. So we went to Germany and I didn't trust anyone. It was all too easy.

I was so sure I'd lost you forever. That I hadn't even been able to say goodbye and you were gone.

I would have killed every last goddamn alien _for you_.

-Nat

May 6, 2013

Clint-

Happy anniversary of us saving the world.

Apparently it's Avengers Day now.

There was an award ceremony this morning. Tony and Pepper flew back from Malibu so he and Rogers could stand and smile for the cameras.

Me? I stood in the back. I wore your jacket and my sunglasses and put my hair up and pretended very easily that I wasn't actually there. Banner joined me and about halfway through we had the pleasure of Spiderman appearing from the shadows. He gave his two cents and left, seeing as no one seems to like him much, but I appreciated his two cents. Rogers isn't talking to me anyway, or maybe I'm not talking to him. I don't really know the difference.

They only say what they want to- that they kept an alien species from invading earth.

Again with the cowards. Because they did nothing. They let us do the dirty work, the killing, the humanity stripping actions. Looking at their faces, it's like I'm 16 and being handed a fistful of cash to kill a man. Don't worry, they would say. Just do your job.

These people here, each one of their faces ready to _celebrate_ the fact we are all still here, ever the optimists. They don't think about what they lost. They don't think about the pain _we _were caused because of their selfish need to survive.

-Nat

May 7, 2013

Clint-

I suppose I'm being hypocritical, seeing as I'm being selfish in myself. All I'm thinking about is what we lost, and we lost Phil; and what I lost- and I lost you. Sure you may be alive out there somewhere, but the point is you're not here and even when you come back you won't be the same.

You'll never be Pre-New Mexico Clint ever again- you know that was the last time I saw you before the intergalactic space creep decided to come screw with our lives? And I'll never be Pre-Russia Natasha, because that's just the goddam fucking way our lives always seem to work.

Do you know how long it took me to become a goddamn whole person? To wake up in the mornings and not feel like I should just hang the rope and kill myself right there? To actually be _proud_ of what I was doing, to feel like I was helping people instead of just causing more destruction?

Of course you do. You were there the whole time.

That's what I am. Aren't I? The kind of person who takes one step and the whole world comes crashing down on everyone else and there I remain, forced to live with the guilt of the chaos I create.

-Nat

May 12, 2013

Clint-

May is just an awful month now.

If I ever think of a time I was so sure I was going to die, it was on the helicarrier. I was stuck under a pipe and there was fire and Banner was changing into the Hulk and all I could think was that I was going to die. I wasn't going to be able to get out and the Hulk was going to tear me limb from limb and I was going to die.

But I got out. And he threw me into a wall and I thought I was going to die again when Thor came out of nowhere and added more red to my ledger.

Then you were there and I was hurt and tired and freaking out but I got you back.

I got you back and that was all that mattered really.

-Nat

May 23, 2013

Clint-

Have you ever been helpless watch your control slowly slip away? It's the same feeling that comes with waking up by a needle being shoved in your arm.

May twentieth, two thousand thirteen. I was eating a bowl of cereal in the kitchen of Star Tower at 6 a.m. Every noise made me jump. Steve walked through without even looking at me and disappeared upstairs.

That's the last thing I remember.

I lost three days. A lot can happen in three days, most of which would be helpful in explaining why I'm here.

In the cell at SHIELD. The same one as before, I'm pretty sure. How many asylum rooms does SHIELD have? With the white ceiling and white walls and white bed in the corner and the camera I know Fury is on the other side of.

He's watching me because something happened. The doctor was taking blood because something happened. Something happened because I'm here, and I don't know what.

-Nat

May 23, 2013

Clint-

There are healing cuts down the inside of my left arm.

Dr. What's-His-Face felt obliged to point them out, I guess as a memory trigger.

I can't breathe, Clint. Because more scars on top of scars means…

That's why I'm here.

The panic attack. The relapse. That happened, and you weren't here to take care of it. They probably panicked, dammit. They panicked and brought me here.

Now I'm screwed.

-Nat

May 24, 2013

Clint-

Of all people, Banner is the one they let me talk to. Though I suppose I'm not talking to Steve and Tony is back in California, so Banner is the only one left.

He says I scared the shit out of them. I was just sitting on the couch and not responding to anyone and then I started screaming at nothing and they couldn't get me to stop. There was shattered glass and blood and Banner says I beat Steve up pretty bad when he tried to "snap you out of it."

They didn't know what to do, which I suppose is my fault. I didn't tell them about things like that, but I never told anyone. You found out by accident. Banner says he told him not to, but Steve brought me here. To SHIELD. So now everyone knows.

At least he had the decency to apologize for ruining my job.

Neither of them really understand what this means. Banner's insane part is his weapon, why he's here in the first place. Steve doesn't have relapses to a brainwashed past where he had absolutely no control over anything.

But now they all know. The council is going to order decommission and blank my memory even more and ship me off to the middle of nowhere, because even if Fury doesn't tell them I'm sure someone else will.

I'm a liability now. I'm no longer useful, this screwed up and dangerous.

I guess this is the end of the Black Widow.

-Nat

May 25, 2013

Clint-

I've officially lost my mind. I'm stuck here in this waiting game and they won't let me out of medical until they're _sure_ I'm not going to like explode or something.

Fury hasn't come by yet.

He's probably looking for the right time to break the news that I'm fired.

It takes a lot of self-control to sit here and let these doctors take their blood and run their tests without killing any of them. Killing doctors would not look good on my profile at the moment, not after Maria Hill has carefully added 'unstable' and 'risk of clear insanity.'

-Nat

May 28, 2013

Clint-

What if they send me off before you get back?

Would you come find me?

I won't remember, but please promise you will.

You have to promise.

-Nat

May 29, 2013

Clint-

Fury finally came by this morning. He looked so out of place in this hell hole, all serious and not injured. I just feel out of place, but I'm sure I look like shit enough that it seems I'm being detained for my own good.

He threw a folder at me. A mission briefing, some stint in Austria that left two days ago.

I was supposed to be with them, he said. He needed me with them so he could be sure the job was done, but now he can't even let me leave to compound.

"I don't want to fire you, Romanoff. So get your shit together real fast. Do whatever it takes; just get yourself out of _here_."

Give them what they want, right? Just do what you're told to help yourself.

Sometimes it doesn't seem like there's any truth left in my life. It's just layer upon layer of deception and lies.

-Nat

**A/N: If you are entirely and totally confused as to what I'm tal****king about in regards to the panic attacks and what happened and all...it's really hard to write that from first person after it happens when she doesn't remember it. My other story INSANITY deals with that subject, if you are looking for a better explanation as to what exactly a Natasha Romanoff panic attack/relapse entails. **

**If you still have questions, feel free to message me and I will do my best to answer.**

**Thanks for reading! **


	15. June

June 3, 2013

Clint-

A ruthless Italian astrophysicist by the name of Augustus Carollo. Sound familiar? We killed his brother in 2010. Augustus Carollo was receiving coded information for the location of a shipment of stolen Stark weapons technology from some African warlord to Spain. He is planning to use it.

Last week, a team of five agents were assigned an information swap in Austria. A three day mission, nothing more than going to a party, switching one single piece of paper with a fake double, and coming home.

They missed extraction. All five of them.

Then they missed second extraction.

No one has had contact since the day of the switch.

Fury thinks they've been taken hostage.

-Nat

June 5, 2013

Clint-

Dammit Clint, I was supposed to be there. This is the one I was talking about. The information switch I was pulled from. This is what happens when you live in a building of men who are paranoid to no end. Can't handle one stupid panic attack, have to go running to SHIELD to fix me.

I'm not broken, goddammit. I don't need to be fixed.

I needed to be in Austria last week because _this is what I do_. There's a reason I'm good at it.

And now? Five more people could be dead because of me.

Five.

Two of them are married. One has kids, the other is leaving behind a pregnant wife and recently widowed sister.

My ledger is dripping, Clint.

-Nat

June 7, 2013

Clint-

Have you ever heard the cries of a desperate mother?

I have. Sitting outside Fury's office. He's got the wife inside. Her kids are at school, and she's here getting the news that her husband of almost twelve years has gone MIA on the other side of the world, possibly dead.

It's like getting stabbed. That's what it sounds like.

-Nat

June 8, 2013

Clint-

Fury says I can't go but I can't just fucking sit here anymore.

I don't care about "the status of my mental stability." News flash: it doesn't get better. If that's the only reason I'm being confined on this base- because of one accident, someone is going to get their heads ripped off.

You would think the lives of _five men_, five men who actually have hopeful futures, would be worth it.

He says he can't let me go. He can't sacrifice his best agent before they know more, no use sending me in blind.

Blind is what I do. Improvising, I told him. You learn a lot from being partners with a man who doesn't do a great job of thinking stuff through.

Hill won't talk to him right now. She agrees with me. Tony agrees with me. Even Rogers agrees with me.

Can't anyone see that I'm trying to do the right thing here? I'm trying to be the better person you always taught me to be. To throw myself away for five minutes and think only of who else is in danger.

Can't anyone understand that yes, I honestly do value all five of their lives above my own?

-Nat

June 9, 2013

Clint-

And here comes the selfish part: I can't let five more people die because of me, Clint. I can't let five more faces appear in my nightmares, whispering my name because I couldn't save them.

_I have to save them._

It's just one of those things I have to do, or I will never be able to live with myself.

-Nat

June 9, 2013

Clint-

You would understand. You would hate it, but you would let me go.

It's the goddamn right thing to do.

-Nat

June 11, 2013

Clint-

New information was sent this morning from a French asset over the Carollo mission.

Should I find it surprising anymore that my name is all over these reports?

Is it sad that I don't?

_Comissioned for the purpose of heavy interrogation of the Black Widow, aka Natalia Romanova, aka "RR No. 1." _

_Her body is to be returned to [meeting location] by [date]. Full payment for capture and assassination will be received [$XXX]._

"RR No. 1." I have a label. Red Rooms most wanted list.

But this means the whole information switch was set up simply for an attempted capture. Now they're holding them hostage as bait, I know they are. They're just sitting and hoping that the rumors are true, that Natalia Romanova has truly gone soft and grown a heart and will arrive to save them.

That's when they plan to kill me, I know it.

They're not expecting me to come, I know that too. I'm not really one to live up to my stereotypes. I suppose that's what makes me the best, the unpredictability.

You know how you fool the man trying to fool you? Do exactly what they thought you wouldn't.

-Nat

June 14, 2013

Clint-

I don't give a damn what the Council of Asses says.

I'm going.

They can't stop me.

They never could.

I do what I want, right? All that "the moment I find something worth fighting for and you tell me to stop is the moment I walk out that door" shit you always tell Fury.

It makes sense now.

-Nat

June 15, 2013

Clint-

It's a suicide mission.

I hope you know that by now.

You probably figured it out- you're pretty smart after all.

I plan on turning myself in, exchanging their freedom for my custody. Shit happens, you know. Not everything always works out as you want it too.

Because I don't plan on coming back from this one, Clint.

And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I'm never going to get to say goodbye but on this paper.

I'm sorry I'll never get to see your eyes again.

I'm sorry I'll never get to hear you laugh again.

I'm sorry I'll never get to kiss you.

And most of all, I'm sorry that I love you. Because that just makes this ten times harder.

So I'm sorry I had to tell you this way.

And I'm sorry it took ten years for me to figure out that all I never wanted but needed was right in front of my face, waiting for me to realize it too.

You're too patient for me and I'm no good for you and…

I never was one for apologizes.

Please don't beat yourself up over this. I don't want you to live the rest of your life like that, because this wasn't your fault. _This is my decision, and my decision alone_ and I need you of all people to understand that.

Please, please, understand that. Maybe it will help you move on.

I wish…I wish that I could see you one last time, but you aren't supposed to be home until August and this is happening now.

Saturday, June fifteenth, two thousand thirteen.

Clint Barton,

I love you.

I'm sorry I'll never get to hear you say it back.

-Nat


	16. Part IV

_August 8, 2013_

Nick Fury is sitting in his office, staring at a stack of papers on his desk. The first one is an agent profile. The picture of the red haired woman looks back at him, and he thinks about Austria not for the first time that day. About how she's there and the five lives she saved by going. Austria is the only thing he can think about, and he stares at the paper and taps his fingers on the wood of the desk.

When the door is opened, he doesn't flinch. His rhythm doesn't even miss a beat. It slams closed.

"Why, sir? Why did you let her go?"

Fury isn't fazed by the presence of Clint Barton in his office. He looks him over- the worn jacket he's seen recently, on _her_ most likely, the blank expression, the shaking hands. He was expecting Agent Barton to come much sooner, actually.

What surprises him is the seemingly calm and even voice. The lack of yelling. He had prepared for yelling. He had been ready to yell back.

"Barton?" He asks hesitantly. He can tell the ice he's treading on is thin, the walls will only hold for so long.

Clint's face falls for a second and he looks lost and alone.

His fists slam down on the table. "Dammit, Nick! She didn't need that! She didn't need any of it!"

"Agent Barton-"

"You really screwed with her, you know? And it's my fault, because I let you send me away. She needed me and I was gone!"

"Listen to me-"

"Why did you let her go?" His voice drops again. Fury hears the pain in each word- the pain and hurt and betrayal. In his mind, this is almost as bad as having to tell Agent Williams's seven month pregnant wife that her husband may not be coming home. "I already lost Coulson, I can't- I can't lose her, too."

He watches as Clint sinks into the chair on the other side of the desk, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. His mouth opens and closes a few times, his previous words lost because he doesn't really have an answer.

He sent her away because she asked to go.

No, she didn't ask. She demanded that she be sent, mumbling crap about finally having a purpose.

And he'd given in, knowing better than to try and argue. He didn't want her to go. None of them _wanted_ her to go, but it was her ultimately her decision to board that plane.

"You could have said no, Nick. You could have said no a thousand times. You could have kept her here, locked her up again or something. Played the mental instability card you seem so fond of." Clint spits the last words, looking up enough to shoot him a glare.

Fury wonders how much he knows, how much of the last year he was informed of upon his return. He checks his watch- Clint's only been back for three hours.

"I could have said no, but you and I both know she would have gone anyway."

A dry laugh shakes the man's body because of the truth behind those words. Not even armed guards and a high security prison cell would have kept her in America, not this time.

"Clint- she's still alive." Fury says the words slowly, evenly, watching for a response. Clint's shoulders tense and he lifts his head slowly, disbelief all over his face.

"No," he says in a strangled whisper. "You're lying."

Fury ignores this and continues. "As your debriefing hasn't occurred yet, it has not been recorded that you have arrived back from Sydney. A three day detour to the Austrian mountains would go unnoticed." A blank folder is slid across the desk. Clint picks it up and shoves it inside his jacket. "I suggest you take your team. They are scheduled for a training exercise about now; no one will notice they're gone."

Clint stands, the pain on his face replaced by pure determination. "Thank you, sir."

"You have 96 hours."

He nods and turns to leave.

"And Agent Barton," Fury calls as Clint is halfway out the door. He turns only his head. "Bring her back."

The slightest smile crosses his face, and then he is gone.


	17. Part V

_August 9, 2013_

The cell is dark.

She knows that, even with her eyes closed. Even the sliver of the light from under the door has disappeared, blocked several days ago by the body of a man she never knew. Weakling is what he had called her, motioning to her curled up form in the corner. She is the weakling, but he had died first.

The room shakes but she doesn't move. She couldn't even if she wanted to, her muscles stiff and weak. The pain across her chest with every breath causes a small moan of discomfort to escape, but she is quickly silent again. The screaming is what they want, and she refuses to give them that.

Another vibration sends fresh pain across her back with the tremors in the walls. Loud footsteps fade down the tunnel.

When the door creaks and groans open, she tenses on instinct but relaxes almost immediately. It takes to much strength to be on alert, and nothing she can do will stop them anyway. Her willpower is the only thing they have left to break.

"Finally come to finish me off?" She says as loud as possible. "Or are we going to try the whipping again? It really worked well last time."

The lack of response is what gets her. Usually there is a cocky threat in return to her smart ass remarks. She takes a deep breath and her whole body shakes, hands trembling as she opens her eyes just enough to see. The silhouette in the doorway is nothing more than that, and the light escaping around him assaults her vision, which starts to go fuzzy from the moment it focuses. Spots appear and she slams them closed again.

Maybe, she thinks, it's finally time to die.

She waits in anticipation for the killing blow, for anything, and fills her mind with him. He's the last thing she wants to see, running his hand through his hair and blue eyes shining. She wants to hear his voice, feel his deep laugh shake her body as he wraps her in his arms.

A hand hits her shoulder and her whole mind goes blank for a second before she realizes she's not dead, no, but still alive. Just barely. The touch is soft and familiar, and runs across her thin arm in a comforting way.

"Oh God, Tasha," a voice whispers.

Her head lifts slightly and she opens her eyes once more.

She knows that voice.

"Tash, can you hear me?" the voice says again. For just a second, she can focus enough that she can see a face- his face.

But no, it can't be him. He's gone.

She nods anyway. She can hear the voice, after all, even if it's trying to trick her.

The hand moves from her arm to her hair, running through the dirt and sweat and blood matted tangles that once were curls. "Can you stand, Nat?"

"Stop," she says. Her voice is faint. "You…you can't call me that."

"Tasha-"

"No, only he…he can call me that." She takes a raspy breath. Why won't this person just listen?

"Can you stand?" The voice repeats.

She shakes her head. "It hurts," she whines. Weakling echoes around her head and the image of the body falling to the ground plays in her head. But she's the one still holding on.

A strong arm slides between her and the wall and another works its way under her knees. A small cry escapes from the pain that racks her body. He lifts her easily, a fact that sends a fresh wave of panic across his senses. She's much too light, and the blood smeared across her skin scares him.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay?" He asks hesitantly, leaving the cell and moving into the empty tunnel.

She nods. "Is he gone?"

"Who?"

"Clint."

He falters in his step. What did she say?

"He's dead, isn't he? That's why he didn't come back?"

A knot tightens in his throat. "No, I'm not dead," he whispers in reply.

"You're not Clint." Her voice is growing weaker. "Clint wouldn't come for me."

"Why…why not? Why wouldn't he come for you?"

She's delusional, he tells himself. She doesn't know what she's saying, but that doesn't make it easier to listen.

"He doesn't care," she mumbles into his shirt. "That's why he didn't come back."

A flash of pain crosses her face as he stumbles again. Each of her words feels like a stab in the heart.

"Tasha-"

"Or he's dead. It'd be better if he's dead." Her voice fades out and he has to strain to catch her words.

He doesn't respond, just tightens his grip and keeps moving towards the exit. The tears stream silently down his face, dripping from his chin.

She can feel the wet spots on her cheeks and hopes she's not crying. She screws her eyes shut tighter and ignores them. Crying would only prove that she was the weakling, and she can't be weak.

She lets the person carry her away from hell. She can hear him breathing and _feel_ him breathing and a small part of her wishes it's not real, that she's finally being allowed to die.

But I'm alive, she reminds herself; and I am not weak.


	18. Epilogue

_August 13, 2013_

In her half drugged state, she can make out words like 'dangerously underweight' and 'major blood loss' and 'lucky to believe alive' as she struggles to open her eyes.

It's only when she hears what sounds like his voice, whispering things she can't really make out, that the muddled haze finally fades and she can think clearly again. White lights burn her eyes and she has to blink several times before the room comes into focus. White room, white bed, the smell of sterility and sanitation and latex gloves.

She regains the feeling in the rest of her body slowly. Her muscles are stiff and she can feel each broken bone, all in various states of healing. Lying on her back is uncomfortable and she bites her lip as she moves to prop herself up on the less injured arm.

A hand goes to her shoulder. She thinks for a second it's going to push her back down and she has a protest ready, but it simply steadies her as she sits up. With slight difficulty and a wince, she slides her legs from under the scratchy blankets and swings them over the side of the bed.

"Tasha."

Her whole body tenses. She thought she had imagined it, but no, it really is his voice. And as she lifts her head, she sees his face- brown hair, blue eyes, worried crease between the eyebrows.

She was sure she'd never see it again.

"Hi," she whispers after a moment, her eyes never leaving his.

A sad smile crosses his face. "Hey."

"You shouldn't be sitting up, you know."

She rolls her eyes. "I was waiting for you to say that. How's my back look?"

"Like rotting zombie flesh." He shakes the image out of his mind. He'd counted at least 50 lashes from a whip in the few seconds he'd dared to look. It had been all swollen red and torn skin and blood.

"Not even normal zombie flesh, it has to be rotting. Figures." She smiles briefly.

In the silence that follows, he grabs her hand on instinct and his thumb runs across her knuckles. He can't hide the relief he feels that she's awake. No matter how many times the doctors assured him she would be fine, of course after all the blood transfusions and surgeries and stitches, he never believed a word until he could see her eyes, hear her voice, listen to her tell him herself.

But of course he would never ask that, and he's sure he knows her answer. How could she possibly be fine, of all things? Even physically she was barely okay. He'd been the one to carry her out of the caves, after all. That much blood should never cover a person's shirt, if the torn and ripped rag she was wearing could even be called such.

His free hand moves to her hair, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Why…why didn't you think I'd come for you?"

She takes a deep breath and stares at her hand wrapped in his. "I thought you were dead. I was so sure I'd lost you again, Clint; that you were never coming back." Her voice is quiet and scratchy.

"I wasn't allowed to call," he explains quietly. "I wasn't allowed to do anything that would even _imply_ I could be compromised in the slightest, or the council would have my ass. Nothing but grit my teeth and follow the orders and get the job done." Anger swirls in his eyes and he clenches his jaw, his hand curling into a fist. He glances away until it fades. "I missed you a lot, Nat."

"You better have."

"Do you hate me?" he asks, the only question he that truly matters to him.

"No." She looks right at him so he doesn't think she's lying. "I could never hate you Clint, not really."

He shakes his head. "You should."

"But I don't."

Against his better judgment, he stands and pulls her off the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She collapses into him, knotting her hands in his t-shirt. With each shaky breath, he can hear the unshed tears.

"I thought I was going to lose you," he says into her hair. "You are never allowed to do that to me again. I know you were trying this whole righteous martyr act, but you can't Tasha. You just can't."

"Say my name again."

"Please Tasha," he whispers. "Promise me you'll never do something like that again."

Green eyes meet blue. "I promise."

Tears run down her cheeks and she does nothing to stop them. He kisses her forehead and tightens his arms, content to just know she's still there. She buries her face in his shoulder.

"You can be a real jackass sometimes," he says, smiling.

"Prick."

"Idiot."

"Bastard."

"Shithead."

"Damn, you took mine."

He laughs and she sighs at the relaxing sound.

"I'm pissed you got to say it first, Nat."

"Don't be such a baby."

"I love you too."

"I know."

When the rest of the team arrives some time later, they are still standing locked in the embrace. Tony raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, and Steve, sure the remark is going to be rude and unpleasant, shushes him immediately. The billionaire sends a satisfied look at Bruce, and, with an exasperated groan, a twenty dollar bill is passed between the two men.

The group walks slowly away from the room, leaving the assassins undisturbed.

The world is far from fine at the moment, Tony says, bringing up the fact that they almost lost two teammates in an Austrian mountain cave and that all he really wanted was to tell her that he is glad she isn't dead. Steve looks startled by the almost heart-felt words. Bruce simply laughs.

Their world is far from fine, but it will be.

**A/N: The End (unfortunately...)!  
**

**Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read this. And to those who reviewed, followed, favorited...it really means a lot. I am eternally grateful.**


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